That afternoon, a sharp announcement cut through the usual calm of Northstar Games like a siren.
"All team leads, listen up! Anyone not currently tied to urgent work—report to the seventh-floor meeting room immediately. Ethan Reed has something important to announce!"
The effect was instant.
Northstar, normally steady and quiet, suddenly turned into a stirred hive. People moved fast, carrying notebooks, tablets, and half-finished coffees. Employees from both the sixth and seventh floors packed into the meeting room until it was barely breathable. Some squeezed along the walls. Some stood in the doorway, leaning sideways just to hear.
At the front of the room, Vivian Frost sat beside Ethan Reed, watching the crowd with thoughtful eyes.
As she took in the scene—shoulders pressed together, people standing in layers—one decision quietly locked into place in her mind.
The company needed to expand.
Northstar wasn't just Northstar anymore. They now had Mooncrest Studio under their wing too—an entire animation team of roughly thirty people.
If Rachel Quinn ever brought her staff over for collaboration and Northstar couldn't even fit everyone into a meeting room…
That would be embarrassing.
Should they hold meetings in a café?
Vivian almost laughed at the idea.
No. Absolutely not.
Vivian cared about appearances—especially in front of Rachel Quinn. If she was going to present Northstar as a serious powerhouse, she needed the space, the setup, and the presence.
She needed Northstar to look like a rising empire.
Ethan stood up.
The room fell silent.
"The reason I called everyone here," he said, voice calm but firm, "is because we're preparing to launch a new long-term project."
His eyes moved over the room—faces eager, curious, hungry for purpose. He felt it again: the weight of leadership. Not the kind that came with empty titles, but the kind that came with decisions that could shape lives.
Then he pointed toward Daniel and a few others near the front.
"This project isn't something we can finish overnight," Ethan continued. "But supporting it financially won't be the problem."
He didn't explain in detail—he didn't have to. Everyone already knew Northstar's position. The company wasn't a struggling startup anymore. It had products that printed money, and it had momentum that the entire industry could feel.
Ethan could have chosen the easy route.
He could have mass-produced cheap "cash-grab" games—lightweight titles with recycled mechanics and flashy character art, designed only to drain wallets. Those kinds of games were everywhere. Some of them had identical gameplay loops—draw cards, idle battles, cute chibi models—yet still pulled in ridiculous revenue every month.
A game with nothing innovative could earn millions… sometimes tens of millions… purely because it looked good and pushed the right psychological buttons.
Ethan could have made ten of those instantly.
With Northstar's current manpower, if he led the team personally, they could build several in a week.
But he didn't.
He wouldn't.
Because that money came with rot.
When players finally woke up—realizing they'd spent months grinding and years paying, only for the game to vanish the moment profits dipped—what would they remember?
They wouldn't remember fun.
They would remember being exploited.
And Ethan had changed.
A year ago, he might've done it. Back when he made harsh, troll-like "trap games," taking shortcuts for profit and laughing at the chaos.
But now?
Now he had something he never expected to earn: the integrity of a real creator.
Games weren't just about pulling money from people's pockets. If you took someone's time—and especially their trust—you had a responsibility to give something back.
Joy. Meaning. Satisfaction.
If you kept "disgusting" your own players, eventually they would leave.
So Ethan refused to earn that kind of dirty money.
And besides, Northstar wasn't limited to games anymore.
There was music.
There was animation.
There were multiple streams of revenue that didn't require turning players into victims.
Ethan looked around the room again.
"The new project is decided," he said. "But due to technical realities, I'm only selecting part of the company to follow it. The project code name is 2077. Details will be shared after agreements are signed."
A low ripple surged through the crowd.
2077.
That single number felt heavy—like a door had opened into a bigger world.
Daniel stood up beside him and spoke in a deep, steady voice.
"Everyone, this project demands that we learn new skills. I've reviewed the requirements, and I'll be honest—it exposed my weaknesses immediately. This will be a huge challenge for Northstar. But I believe if we move as one team, we can overcome it and deliver something truly perfect."
Ethan nodded once.
"Now I'll call names. Team leads who hear their name—stand next to Daniel."
He began.
"Alex Shaw.
Sheng Yang.
Jiang Long.
Teng Yuan.
Bao Zhong.
Chang Cheng."
One by one, leaders stood up, expressions bright with excitement. The energy shifted instantly—like someone had flipped a switch. Some people looked proud. Some looked anxious. Some looked openly jealous.
Alex Shaw, especially, couldn't hide his grin. He'd been placed in a maintenance role earlier—stable, respected, technically a promotion—but he wanted something harder.
Something that tested him.
Something that mattered.
He lifted a hand dramatically and called out to the people whose names weren't selected.
"You're too kind! Truly! I'm honored!"
The room groaned and laughed at the same time.
Ethan couldn't help smiling.
Vivian was right.
Northstar's greatest asset wasn't only its products.
It was this team.
Young, idealistic, hungry, stubborn.
They didn't have the polished skill of industry veterans yet, but they had what most veterans had lost: fire.
In big companies, passion got crushed by deadlines and corporate politics. You got exhausted faces, stress-baldness, and quiet numbness.
But these people?
They still smelled like a future.
Ethan raised his voice again.
"Team leads who were selected—each of you will choose three employees from your teams to join the 2077 project. Contracts get signed today. Official work begins tomorrow."
A hand shot up from the crowd.
It belonged to Ryan Young.
"Uh… Ethan. What about me?"
Another voice followed immediately.
"Was I not chosen?"
Ryan looked genuinely hurt—like he'd been left out of something that mattered.
Ethan's expression softened.
He understood that feeling.
"You have a different mission," Ethan said. "I have another game I need you to lead."
Ryan froze—then his shoulders loosened, relief spreading through his face.
He wasn't forgotten.
He wasn't sidelined.
He still mattered.
In Ethan's broader plan, 2077 was the mountain—but mountains required supply lines.
To support the long development of 2077, Northstar would release smaller, high-quality projects: compact games with strong replay value and loyal audiences. Step by step, emotion points and revenue would accumulate.
And Ethan already knew the next target.
Fighting games.
In their market, fighting games were a wasteland. Developers treated them as niche, outdated, "arcade leftovers." Since arcades had died, people assumed the genre died with them.
But that was wrong.
Some of the strongest franchises in gaming history came from fighting games. They built communities that were small but loyal—and those players were usually adults with spending power.
Selling classic fighting titles for a fair price wasn't exploitation.
It was respect.
And respect created long-term fans.
Ryan nodded, satisfaction replacing disappointment.
In his mind, he was still Northstar's fourth pillar.
And as for Alex Shaw?
Ryan smirked internally.
He still couldn't compare.
Funny enough, Alex Shaw was thinking the same thing.
Ethan lifted a hand.
"Alright. Those selected—stay. Everyone else may leave."
Ryan stepped out first, deliberately closing the meeting room door behind him.
Outside, a wave of employees immediately swarmed him.
"What is it?"
"What's the project?"
"Tell us!"
Ryan wagged a finger like a secret agent.
"Can't say. It's classified."
That only made them more curious.
Inside the meeting room, Ethan smiled faintly.
"Now… we sign."
Vivian placed a thick stack of printed papers on the table and spread them out neatly.
Ethan's tone turned serious.
"Sign this. For the next three years, you cannot leave Northstar due to work-related obligations."
Alex Shaw signed instantly, without hesitation.
Leave Northstar?
He'd rather get dragged out.
Some of the others hesitated, reading carefully, exchanging looks.
A few muttered under their breath—half joking, half jealous.
"Damn it… Alex got to show off first."
"I should've stood closer to the front."
"That annoying guy…"
Ethan heard them and almost laughed.
Then he looked at Vivian.
She was smiling too—quietly proud.
And Ethan felt something settle in his chest.
Motivation.
He had promised the industry that this year would shake the gaming world.
He had said it would become the year of Northstar.
Then it had to happen.
Northstar's new direction was set.
Ethan raised his hand with decisive energy.
"Now… let's get to work."
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