Johnny frowned and typed back: "Please remain quiet during the game."
A dynamic emoji of sunglasses reflecting light immediately popped up above Michael's head, his smugness practically overflowing the screen: "Don't rush, I'm just teaching Miss Jennifer how to win. My dear, avoid playing hearts this round—save them to trap the next player."
To Johnny's astonishment, Jennifer responded with the system's built-in "shy" emoji.
Johnny felt his blood pressure surge instantly.
This wasn't just playing cards; it was blatant, face-to-face undermining.
To make matters worse, when Johnny, distracted by the exchange, made a mistake and was penalized by the player before him, Michael's virtual avatar immediately performed an exaggerated "belly-laugh" animation. The mocking body language was more hurtful than any words.
"What kind of broken mechanism is this?!" Johnny fumed, frantically moving his mouse to kick the unwelcome guest out.
But when he clicked the "Kick Out" button, a cold system prompt appeared:
[ This user is a VIP member with kick immunity. ]
That feeling of powerlessness, mixed with jealousy, gnawed at Johnny's heart like a venomous snake.
Takuya Nakayama's prophecy—"sell them the unfairness"—was now a palpable sense of resentment, brutally slapping the faces of free users.
Johnny stared at Michael's gleaming red "V" logo, then glanced at Jennifer, who seemed quite interested in the guy in the leather jacket. The mouse in his hand creaked under his tight grip.
Fuck this free trial.
Johnny slammed the chat window shut, clicked on the "Member Recharge" button in the top-right corner, and pulled out his credit card with his other hand.
Five bucks, huh? I'll buy a cooler outfit!
Similar scenes were playing out before tens of thousands of glowing screens across America.
Some were desperate to save face in front of their goddesses, others wanted to flaunt that red "V" logo to their rivals, and still others just wanted that "taunt emote" that would drive their opponents to the brink of madness.
Takuya Nakayama's prophecy—"sell them the unfairness"—was now transforming into a frenzy of transaction data surging through Silicon Valley Online's backend servers.
Frank Marshall sat in his office, the ashtray before him empty, replaced by a freshly printed weekly report still warm to the touch.
"Tom, you need to see this." He slid the report across the desk, tapping his finger on a bold number. "I've done a lot of business in my life—sold hardware, software, even GG Slots. But I never imagined selling lines of code could be this profitable."
Tom Kalinske, who had come over from Sega North America Headquarters to oversee the Card & Board Hall launch, leaned in and glanced at the report. His pupils contracted slightly.
The report showed that while Silicon Valley Online's primary revenue source, the "GG Business," was still growing, it paled in comparison to the new "Value-Added Services" section, looking like an underdeveloped Elder Toguro next to it.
In just one week.
The net profit from virtual leather jackets, sunglasses, and even simple color changes for usernames had already surpassed Webdir's GG revenue for the entire previous month.
"Marginal cost is zero," Tom muttered to himself, recalling the stick figure Takuya Nakayama had drawn in the conference room. "One graphic artist can create an image we can sell to a million people. No inventory, no logistics, not even customer service. As long as the servers keep running, it's pure profit."
"More importantly, this thing is incredibly stable," Frank leaned back in his chair, unbuttoned his collar, and relaxed completely. "The GG Chamber of Commerce is cutting budgets due to economic fluctuations, but user vanity never deflates. As long as people are socializing online and want to stand out in the crowd, we're guaranteed to make money."
This wasn't just about money; it was a fundamental shift in the business model.
Before, Silicon Valley Online, despite its massive traffic, was still seen by the old guard on Wall Street as a "money pit," burning cash to buy attention.
The GG Chamber of Commerce in BBS and Webdir might look lively, but their ceiling was too low. Within the current scale of the Internet, they still had to rely on the whims of GG merchants.
But now, the ICQ Game Lobby had directly monetized its traffic.
When the Goldman Sachs representative returned to the office, their attitude had subtly changed.
Two weeks ago, these investment bankers in their custom suits had been scrutinizing every detail with magnifying glasses, grilling Frank about bandwidth costs and user retention rates.
Now, the lead partner from Goldman Sachs, clutching the latest valuation report, looked at Frank as if he were a walking money tree.
"Mr. Marshall," the partner said, closing the folder. His previous scrutiny had vanished, replaced by an almost greedy eagerness. "Based on the ICQ Game Lobby's current ARPU, we've run our models again."
"And the results?" Frank asked, feigning ignorance.
"Our previous valuation was too conservative," the partner said, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. He quoted a figure. "If this growth curve holds during the roadshow, we're confident we can raise the IPO price by another 30%. KPCB and Sequoia have already signaled their support; they even suggested delaying the listing by two weeks to wait for second-quarter earnings to look even better before ringing the bell."
Frank and Tom exchanged a glance.
This isn't a suggestion to delay, Frank thought. It's these vampires wanting to fatten up this pig before slaughtering it.
"Tell them to proceed as planned," Frank said, rising and walking to the floor-to-ceiling window. He gazed down at the bustling streets of Silicon Valley. "The hype is just right now. Besides, Executive Director Nakayama wants us to launch as soon as possible, and Sega has a lot on its plate this year. We can't let this fire burn out of control."
"Understood."
In Tokyo, the morning sun was just beginning to rise, and the cicadas outside were making their final, desperate calls.
Takuya Nakayama held a freshly brewed cup of instant coffee in one hand and scrolled through an encrypted email that had arrived from across the ocean with the other.
The attachment title was simple: "ICQ Game Lobby Two-Week Operating Report."
When he opened the document, the first thing that greeted him wasn't dry text, but a blazing red bar chart.
The red bar representing "Value-Added Service Revenue" stood out like a lightning rod piercing the sky, arrogantly towering over its diminutive neighbor, "GG Revenue."
As Takuya scanned the sub-list titled "Virtual Item Sales Ranking," he couldn't help but smile.
The top-ranked item wasn't a practical card tracker, but a black suit skin called "The Godfather," priced at $4.99.
Close behind was the special effects package that transformed winning animations into "money raining down."
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