The third phase of DreamDev began with heavy doors closing and holographic screens rising like auroras above the oval boardroom table. High atop the LuxCore Tower, the executive floor felt like another city: smoked glass, indoor gardens, and a view that made Neuron City look like a miniature map.
In the center of the room, wearing the black badge only decision-makers wore, stood Ayaka Takamura, 30, CEO of LuxCore. Too young for many, unavoidable for all.
The daughter of a language teacher and an old-school engineer, Ayaka grew up surrounded by books and prototypes. She joined LuxCore as a systems architect at 21, led the migration from the proprietary engine to a hybrid rendering pipeline, and at 28, became president after a board vote saw her as the only one capable of driving the company into the next decade.
She was known for three things: brevity, a nose for talent, and a zero tolerance for products that lied to the public.
She opened the meeting with the restraint of someone who signs contracts and also plays the piano:
"We have twenty games. Today we will leave with 10 to launch."
To Ayaka's right, Shoji Sasaki, marketing director, was already adjusting his son's slides like someone adjusting an important tie. To his left, Naomi Hayasaka, business manager, her pen perfectly aligned with her notebook. Further back, creative directors, lead analysts, and studio heads. And, like an asterisk that weighed more heavily than any title, Takeshi Morioka, 72, founder of LuxCore, watched silently, with the old, curious eyes of someone who still lets himself be surprised.
The Agenda and the Sieve.
The rules were simple, cruel, and clear: each executive would bring their 10 chosen ones, defending them on the axes of gameplay, story, selling point, creativity, technical polish, and commercial projection. The panel would receive, discuss, and refute. In the end, Ayaka would lead the consolidation.
Top 20 Samples.
To warm up, they went over some highlights that had been discussed internally:
"Astral Rail" (rhythmic action): flashy execution, addictive loop, but shallow narrative.
"Silver Orchard" (narrative simulator): beautiful art, unstable performance on average hardware.
"Deepline" (puzzle-roguelike): brilliant ideas, too aggressive learning curve.
Among the 20, there was also "Bingo's Playground." the Mascot Horror of Kenji Sasaki, Shoji's son, a recent graduate of the Kōryō Institute of Interactive Arts & Game Engineering (煌陵インスティテュート), in Minato, Tokyo. The institution, repeated as a mantra in elite circles, had a profile that Shoji himself made a point of remembering at the table:
Selection process with 2% approval;
Exclusive partnerships with major studios;
Faculty full of former creative directors and veteran engineers;
AR labs, AI applied to games, systemic narrative and luxurious bedrooms;
A secret exchange program with American and European universities for the top of the class;
Motto: 「創造を超えて,世界を変える」(Sōzō o koete, sekai o kaeru) — "Beyond creation, we change the world."
Thanks to money and connections, Shoji secured his son's entry, and later, a direct position as a mid-level developer at LuxCore.
That day, he came ready to conquer the room.
The Shoji Argument.
Shoji projected Bingo, the talking white rabbit with big eyes, an almost human smile, and red theme park gloves. The setting: a failing children's park; the hook: corrupted nostalgia, laughter that becomes an echo.
"Mascots sell. They're icons. 'Bingo's Playground' has a clear hook, a powerful thumbnail, and a ready-made merchandising pipeline. Horror is accessible, streamable, with shareable moments. It's a product with marketing written in its DNA."
He showed data, trends, streamer watchtime curves, clip-to-jumpscare ratios, numbers that, in the real world, make accounts add up. Some nodded. Others waited.
Naomi was the first to disagree.
Naomi's Containment.
"I agree that there is an initial appeal."
She started.
"But the construction and story feel generic. The mascot is scary, yes, but it lacks depth. We risk replicating the mistake of NexusSoft Games' Playpen of Bonbon: high promise, quick return, rapid decline."
The name NexusSoft made the room adjust its posture. Everyone knew the franchise's gold and rust cycle: sales spikes and creative drift.
"We have something better on the table."
Naomi continued.
"Resident Evil, of Makoto Yoshida."
When "Resident Evil" came to the table.
The screen shifted. The silhouette of Jill, Chris, Rebecca, and Wesker stared into the room with disconcerting realism. Skin, light, gaze. No plastic, no exaggeration. There was cinema there, and, more than that, nerve-wracking interactivity.
Naomi opened her report:
"Gameplay: very well-calibrated circles of tension and relief; puzzles integrated into the architecture; reading space as a mechanic.
Story: gradual delivery through diaries and reports, the enigma of the murders on the outskirts of Raccoon City, the missing Bravo team, the arrival and separation of the Alpha team, the Spencer Mansion as a character in itself, the corporate shadow of Umbrella.
Graphic quality: surreal, materials, micro-details, facial animation; impossible to ignore the jump.
Soundtrack and VO: sound design that uses silence as an instrument; cohesive dubbing, precise direction.
Sales potential: High. Classic horror with a modern twist, strong word-of-mouth, scalable franchise.
Creativity: This game respects the classics of Survival Horror and brings new layers, intelligent layout, iconic scenes (like the first zombie turning its face) without empty nostalgia."
She paused, letting the silence work in her favor.
"It's a masterpiece. And it came from a first-time developer."
Shoji cleared his throat.
"I respect the polish, but it's... too classic. Mascot horror plays better with younger audiences. It's a new digital folklore. 'Bingo' has a face for a t-shirt, a doll, a sticker pack. 'Resident Evil'... doesn't have a cute icon."
That's when the other executives came in, one by one.
— Engine Director: "The skin and cloth shaders are on another level. And I didn't see any pop-in on mid-range hardware."
— Audio Lead: "The soundscape makes the player walk slowly. That's psychological design."
— Head of Products: "Pacing has demo retention we haven't seen in years."
— Creative Director: "The Mansion solves backtracking with spatial reading. This is invisible didactics."
Shoji tried a flank:
"And the risk? Adult horror restricts merch and licensing."
Naomi counterattacked without raising her voice:
"The biggest risk is appearing opportunistic. Audiences have already learned to spot Mascot Horror that promises but doesn't deliver. Resident Evil offers longevity."
The Voice that Closes.
Until then silent, Takeshi Morioka leaned into the microphone. The room held its breath.
"I played yesterday. I turned off the lights, left the hallway open, and the game forced me to close the door."
There was quiet laughter. Takeshi didn't smile.
"It's not just horror. It's respect for the player. Yoshida understands when to scare and when to listen. That's rare. Develop him."
When Takeshi speaks, the rest is a footnote. Ayaka simply nodded, as if confirming a hunch:
"Resident Evil is in."
Shoji, without losing his composure, collected his slides. His smile faded, but it remained enough to save the theater. He knew Bingo wouldn't enter, and he also knew that after Takeshi's speech, no one would reopen the subject.
The Consolidation of the Ten.
From then on, the meeting ran smoothly. There were occasional disagreements, portfolio adjustments, and genre combinations for the release window. In the end, the ten spots were narrowed down to a balanced selection. Among them, standing out, was Resident Evil—Makoto Yoshida.
Ayaka concluded:
"Inform those who have been approved. Marketing kickoff begins tomorrow. I want a teaser in two weeks."
The lights dimmed. The future, for a moment, seemed simple.
----
The News that Changes Lives.
Hours later, on the production floor, Sakura Amano appeared in the area, discreet, with firm steps. Makoto was finishing a hotfix on a promotional minigame when she leaned against the cubicle counter with a half-smile.
"Yoshida."
He turned, trying to decipher the expression.
"Congratulations. Resident Evil has been approved. Top 10."
Makoto blinked once, twice, as if his brain needed to synchronize with reality. His breath came in short, shaky laughs. Sakura held up the marketing briefing sheets and continued professionally:
"Get ready. Trailer, key art, feature list. The brass has high expectations. And... your promotion is likely to follow."
"I…"
Makoto took a breath.
"Thank you. Really."
"You made it. Now, let's launch it."
She lightly touched the paper on his desk, a tiny gesture, almost a congratulation that didn't need words, and left.
Makoto leaned back in his chair and raised his hands to the sky in the office, laughing with moist eyes. Ren Tanaka, who had been watching from afar, came running over:
"Dude! MAN! I knew it! I told you so!"
They embraced with the awkward joy of those who still have a lot to live for. Ren, sincere:
"I'm so happy for you. You rock."
"We'll go together."
Makoto replied.
"Next time, you come back stronger."
Ren nodded, the flame already rekindled.
----
In Another Corner of the Tower.
In the marketing department, Kenji Sasaki got the news from his own father. Shoji was blunt, as one who must be both a father and a boss should be:
"Didn't enter."
Kenji's eyes widened.
"How did it not get in? The feedback from the tests—"
"It didn't come in."
Shoji breathed wearily.
"A beginner's game managed. Resident Evil."
The title sounded insulting. Kenji's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching.
Mascots sell, he repeated mentally, like a mantra. Mascots sell.
"A beginner?"
"The best project of the program."
The silence between them was a broken bridge. Kenji turned his face away, red with a wounded pride he had yet to learn to heal.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Shoji didn't either.
----
Epilogue of the day.
Back in his cubicle, Makoto opened SeedNet not to create, but to gaze. The mansion stood there, quiet, perfect, waiting. He walked through the lobby, paused beneath the chandelier, closed his eyes, and listened to the full silence he'd built, a silence that, soon, the whole world would hear.
The dream was no longer an idea. It had a date, a trailer, a release window.
And above all, it had a name: Makoto Yoshida.
He smiled to himself, then typed a message:
> To: Airi Hoshizora
"I think I'll have something for you to play live soon."
Send. A slight tremor in the hands. A laugh trapped in the chest.
Night descended upon Neuron City like a giant screen. And for the first time, Makoto felt like the movie was his.