Grant didn't hesitate. He focused his mind and issued a command to the dark blue panel.
[Exchange: Server Dynamic Lock-Free Queue Underlying Algorithm Framework]
[Reputation Points consumed: 100]
Without a second's delay, a complex yet incredibly clear stream of data surged into his consciousness. This wasn't just simple code; it was a masterpiece of engineering. Forged through the fires of Earth's most brutal online environments and refined through dozens of major iterations by top-tier tech giants, it was a solution designed to crush any concurrent processing method currently known in this world.
Grant didn't just copy-paste this godsend. That wouldn't be showing strength; it would be exposing a dangerous secret.
Instead, he spent three hours "re-deriving" the algorithm using his own logic and style. He pruned the overly advanced elements, keeping only the core mechanics needed to solve Arthur's problem. He even intentionally left behind a few "thought traces"—logic paths that looked like detours but ultimately led to a breakthrough—to make it look like a human moment of inspiration.
Finally, he compiled a technical document with clean logic and rigorous code. He hit send.
Subject: Some thoughts on that Ghost Bug.
With that done, he sat calmly in his chair, watching the horizon. He was waiting for dawn—and a result.
That night, Arthur was destined to get no sleep.
Initially, he had only planned to skim the document as a final courtesy to an old friend. But the moment he clicked it and his eyes swept across the first line of pseudocode, it was as if he'd been struck by lightning. He practically leaped out of his ergonomic chair.
Impossible.
This approach... it didn't just bypass the technical pitfalls his team had been struggling with; it pulverized them.
What he was looking at was a dynamically scalable, lock-free circular queue. It replaced heavy-duty mutexes with elegant CAS atomic operations. The memory barrier design was so exquisite it made his scalp tingle. Every character was a stroke of genius. It didn't just fix the data corruption; it offered a level of stability and efficiency he had never even heard of.
Could this really have been written by someone "pushed out" of the industry?
Arthur's breathing quickened as the code echoed in his mind.
As the first light of dawn touched the city, Grant's phone rang. He picked up immediately. On the other end, Arthur's voice was hoarse with excitement and exhaustion.
"You... that document..." Arthur struggled to find the words, finally settling for the most direct question. "How many more ideas like that do you have?"
Grant knew the hook was set. He didn't answer directly. Instead, he dropped his voice into a captivating, low tone. "Arthur, for a second, forget about the bug. Forget about your mortgage."
"Listen to a story."
"Imagine a game where you aren't a hero. You aren't a warrior. You don't even have the courage to fight back. You're unarmed, stripped of all power. Your only weapon is a handheld camcorder with night vision."
"Your goal isn't to win. It's to run, to hide, and to survive the purest form of horror in total, oppressive darkness."
The only sound from the other end was heavy breathing. Grant continued to paint the nightmare.
"In a world dominated by 'Warriors, Mages, and Priests,' where every game teaches you how to be a god, my game teaches you one thing: how it feels to be the prey. It will be a psychological sledgehammer to every player who touches it."
Arthur was reeling from the concept, but his instincts as a top-tier programmer kicked in. "If it's just running and hiding, how do you keep the pace? Won't players get bored?"
Grant answered fluently. "Resource management and information asymmetry. The camera's battery is limited. Every time you turn on night vision, you're trading your lifeline for sight. Players have to choose: do I want to see the danger, or do I want to live longer? Plus, the AI won't just patrol. They'll open doors. They'll check under beds and inside lockers. Every time you hide, it's a high-stakes gamble with death."
Arthur's mind was racing now. "The night vision effect—that grainy, distorted documentary feel—that's a performance hog! How do you keep it realistic without killing the frame rate?"
"You don't need complex post-processing," Grant said, hitting the nail on the head. "We use a custom noise texture, a simple color filter, and a lens-breathing script. We simulate the feeling of voyeurism with minimal overhead. It's not a rendering problem; it's an art of visual deception."
"What about the levels? The plot?"
"Semi-procedural generation to keep escape routes unpredictable. Fragmented storytelling—hide the truth in scattered files and environmental cues. Let the players piece the nightmare together themselves."
Question after question was fired off; solution after perfect solution was returned. Grant spoke like a man who had already spent a decade developing the game. Arthur went silent. He wasn't questioning anymore. He could see it—a new era of gaming was beginning, and Grant was the one standing at the door, ready to kick it open.
Finally, a roar of pure catharsis erupted from the phone.
"Let's do it! I don't want to spend another damn day at this job! You handle the vision, Grant—I'll make the code sing!"
That afternoon, a dusty Toyota pulled up to Grant's old apartment building.
The door swung open, and Arthur stepped out. He had massive dark circles under his eyes, but he was grinning as he hauled box after box out of the car. He had brought everything—most importantly, his top-spec rig, which he cradled like a newborn.
He had resigned. No hesitation, no looking back.
The two friends stood at the doorway, looking at each other's disheveled states. One was betting everything on a vision and a mysterious system; the other had just walked away from a fortune, carrying a heavy future on his shoulders. They both burst out laughing.
"The studio needs a name, right?" Arthur asked as he began plugging in his monitors.
Grant thought for a moment. "Let's call it Singularity."
"Because we are going to be the 'Singularity' that triggers the big bang of the gaming industry."
After the initial rush of passion, cold reality set in. Outlast required a very specific art style—dark, oppressive, grimy, and terrifyingly real. They needed a genius who could paint "despair" itself. Such a person was rarer than a master coder.
The division of labor was set. Arthur didn't waste a second, immediately spinning up the underlying framework while his computer fans began a low, steady hum.
Grant took on the harder task: finding the crucial third member who could breathe a soul into the nightmare.