Crash!
Days later, Gus Harper dumped a bag of toy guns on the WindyPeak conference table.
Luke Bennett and Jake Rivers gaped.
"What's this?" Luke asked, grabbing a pistol.
"Glock 22," Gus said, channeling a tech expo swagger. ".40 S&W, 15-round mag, ideal for close-quarters, standard for U.S. cops' quick-draw style."
"Not what I meant," Luke groaned, facepalming. "Why toy guns?"
"To play games," Gus said, shouldering an AR15, aiming. "This perspective."
Luke squinted as Gus sighted him. "Adding a raise-gun animation to virtual crosshairs? Overkill."
"No crosshairs," Gus corrected, lowering the gun. "Iron sights only."
"What?!" Luke and Jake blurted, stunned.
Virtual crosshairs were FPS gospel.
Other games added raise-gun flair, sure, but ditching crosshairs? Unheard of.
"Too complex," Luke said, grabbing an AK, hip-firing stance. "Crosshairs are market-tested—quick, wide view, perfect for VibeX1."
Jake nodded. "Other VR shooters use crosshairs like arcade laser pointers. Safer bet."
Gus knew their logic.
VibeX1 FPS games mimicked arcade motion controls—point, shoot, crosshair tracks the muzzle.
Not his vision.
Not second-gen FPS.
As game director, Gus could've ordered compliance. His clout with Luke and Jake meant they'd follow without whining.
But second-gen FPS wasn't just tech—it was feel.
Recoil, smoothness, feedback, ergonomics—data couldn't capture it.
Gus bought these motorized toy guns to show, not tell.
"Feel it," he said, sliding an AK to Luke. "These simulate recoil. Jake says 'go,' I rush you with a knife. First, use the laser pointer as a crosshair."
Luke nodded, gripping the AK, standing at the room's end.
Gus, plastic bayonet in hand, signaled readiness.
Jake raised his hand. "Three! Two! One! Go!"
"Banzai!" Gus roared, charging.
"Shit!" Luke yelped, startled by the absurd war cry, but snapped the laser pointer onto Gus and fired.
Dadada!
Gus play-collapsed, sliding to his knees.
"That's classic crosshair shooting," he said, standing. "Feel?"
Luke scratched his head. "Like… we should check your ancestry for method acting."
"Not that!" Gus kicked him. "Shooting experience!"
"Oh," Luke grinned. "Same old VR shooter vibe. Nothing special."
"Round two," Gus said. "No laser. Use iron sights."
Luke nodded, curious.
Jake counted down. "Go!"
Gus charged, howling again.
Luke shouldered the AK, sights aligned.
His vision narrowed—everything blurred but Gus, sprinting closer, faster, scarier.
Panic hit.
Luke fired instinctively.
Dadadada!
The gun's motor mimicked recoil, sights jumping, feedback visceral.
Even knowing it was a game, Luke got goosebumps.
This was second-gen FPS.
"Holy… shit…" Luke gasped.
The difference was night and day.
Crosshairs were easy; iron sights were alive—recoil, focus, threat amplified.
Add muzzle flash, bullet spread, blood splatter, ragdoll physics?
Unimaginable impact.
And Gus's zombie FPS?
Not slow, shambling Resident Evil zombies, but Journey to Fukushima's fast, swarming horrors.
Left 4 Dead 2 on VibeX1 would be a bomb.
"Feel it now?" Gus asked, grinning at Luke's stunned silence.
"Worlds apart," Luke said, pulling Gus up. "Recoil, feedback, vision—it's a total upgrade."
He beamed. "Gus, this could spark another gaming revolution."
No exaggeration.
Phasmophobia's ($13,560,000 revenue, $8,850,000 profit) horror shake-up was big, but FPS was a bigger market.
Second-gen FPS could redefine the industry.
"Too bad you can't patent game modes," Luke sighed. "We'd be set for life."
Gus clapped his shoulder. "Don't sweat it. This game'll feed us for three lifetimes."
Luke grinned, imagining Left 4 Dead 2's final polish.
Jake raised his hand. "Yo, Gus, I wanna try!"
Gus, knees sore from sliding, waved him off. "Luke's got this. Jake, you're our artist—learn this feel."
Luke took the dagger, smirking. "Hey, old horse!"
Gus shook his head, laughing, and shut the conference room door.
Outside, Gus ran into Zoey Parker, arms full of snacks.
She glanced at the noisy room—Luke and Jake yelling in mangled Korean.
"Learning Korean?" she asked, suspicious.
"Uh, research project," Gus mumbled.
Zoey rolled her eyes. Worse liar than me with my 'movie inspiration' bit.
But she didn't care.
Slacking was her jam—less work, better flop odds for her 100x rebate card.
"Creative passion, love it," she said, tossing him chips. "Snack?"
Gus caught them. "Let's talk game budget."
Zoey's ears perked up. Now we're talking.
In her office, she tore open the chips. "How much?"
Gus hedged. "Promo video's rough estimate is ready. Game's still calculating."
"How much for the video?" Zoey crunched.
Gus raised a finger.
"$100,000?" Zoey frowned.
Too low.
Phasmophobia's video—her and Gus, no CG—cost $100,000.
Another low-budget skit?
"Nope," Gus said. "$1,000,000."
Zoey choked.
A million for a three-minute trailer?!
Phasmophobia's entire budget was $2,000,000!
This was money-torching madness.
But it shook her.
She wanted to burn cash for her rebate, but WindyPeak's $8,850,000 Phasmophobia profit wouldn't cover a blockbuster.
Licking her lips, she asked, "Video's $1,000,000… what's the full game cost?"
Gus paused, calculating. "How much we got?"
Zoey shrank. "How much you want?"
Gus grinned. "To make it perfect? Every cent you've got."