The turbine fan of Arthur's high-end PC provided the only soundtrack in the room.
"Lead Artist—what kind of person are we looking for?" Arthur's fingers danced across the keyboard, his eyes never leaving the code.
"An abnormal one."
Grant's answer caused the typing to halt for a split second. "Speak English, Grant."
"I don't care how well they draw. I care about how 'wrong' they draw." Grant swiped through his phone, his face bathed in the harsh blue light of the screen. "Mainstream fantasy is too ethereal. Chibi style is too cloying. Anime style is too kitschy."
"I need an art style that causes physical discomfort through a screen. It needs to be dirty, grimy, and oppressive. I want that sense of realism where it looks like sewer sludge is smeared over the camera lens."
Arthur fell silent, processing the "perverted" request. "A person like that... is rarer than a ghost."
"That's why I'm not looking on recruitment sites."
Grant tapped an icon for an app with a messy, graffiti-style logo called 'Canvas Chaos'—the country's largest community for independent artists. It was a place where thousands of creators dumped their work, dreaming of being discovered. Most were drowned out and forgotten, but Grant believed true genius was hidden in those neglected corners.
He scrolled through a waterfall of images. Page after page of gorgeous, idealized men. Piece after piece of epic landscapes with maxed-out lighting. Skilled techniques, solid foundations—but zero soul. They were like exquisite canned goods produced on an industrial assembly line.
Grant swiped past them expressionlessly, flipping through over a hundred pages. The air in the room grew heavy. Even the sound of Arthur's keyboard was starting to sound irritable.
Suddenly, Grant's finger stopped.
On the screen was a neglected sketch with only a handful of likes. The image was simple: a solitary street lamp casting a dismal glow through thick fog. Under the light, there was only a single, unnaturally elongated, lonely shadow.
No flashy lighting tricks. No complex composition. But the sense of isolation overflowing from the screen, the feeling of being completely alien to the world, struck Grant right between the eyes.
He clicked the profile of the artist: 'Little Fox.'
Inside were dozens of similar pieces. An abandoned amusement park with a rusted carousel. An empty subway car with flickering lights. The back of a girl sitting alone on a windowsill, looking out at a gray, decayed city.
Incredible inspiration. An unparalleled ability to manifest atmosphere. This 'Little Fox' was practically born to draw Outlast.
"Found them."
Arthur didn't look back. "Who?"
Grant didn't answer. He issued a command to the system in his mind. Analyze 'Little Fox.'
[Consuming 10 Reputation Points for background analysis...]
[Analysis complete.]
Name: Sophie Lee.
Status: Suffering from mild social anxiety; difficult financial situation. Currently relies on drawing cheap social media avatars to pay the bills.
Talent Assessment: Elite atmosphere creator. Talent is being severely suppressed by reality.
As expected. Geniuses like this often lived in their own worlds, held down by the weight of real life. Grant found the private message button and carefully typed out a sincere invitation.
Hello, my name is Grant. I'm an independent game producer. I've seen your work and I'm blown away by your talent. We are developing a disruptive horror game, and your style is exactly what we need. I'd love to have you join our team and create something great together.
He even added a final, hopeful sentence: We want to change the world.
He hit send. The next second, a red exclamation mark popped up.
[Message failed. User has blocked you.]
Grant was stunned. He refreshed the page; it now said 'User does not exist.'
Fast. Too fast. He could practically see the girl on the other end, seeing the words "change the world" and immediately flagging him as a new type of scammer.
"Get it sorted?" Arthur asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
"She thinks I'm a scam artist." Grant tossed his phone aside and rubbed his temples.
"I told you, geniuses are like ghosts," Arthur mocked, rubbing salt into the wound. "Why would she believe you? A makeshift crew with no office, opening with 'let's change the world.' If I were her, I'd block you too."
Grant didn't argue. He just sat in silence as the keyboard clattered again. He realized his mistake. To a pure creator like Sophie, grand narratives were just empty noise. She didn't believe in words. She only believed in images.
He had to use a piece of work she couldn't resist to pierce through her soul.
"System," Grant commanded. "Exchange for the core concept art of Outlast."
[Warning: This is a top-tier asset. Consumes 500 Reputation Points. Confirm?]
"Confirm!"
[Reputation Points -500. Remaining: 390.]
[Core Concept Art 'The Peeping' delivered to your consciousness.]
In an instant, a horrifyingly vivid image exploded in Grant's mind.
An abandoned hospital ward. Total darkness. The only vision came from the eerie green night-vision lens of a camcorder. Grain, distortion, and static. The camera slowly panned down, aiming beneath a hospital bed.
In the shadows, a pair of mad, bloodshot eyes stared fixedly back at the lens. Staring directly at the person holding the camera.
This was the soul of Outlast.
Grant immediately registered a new 'Canvas Chaos' account using a generic guest persona. He paired the image with a single, seductive caption:
"Your weapon is not a gun, but a camera."
"Your enemy is not a monster, but madness."
"Your only goal is to survive and use the lens to uncover the truth."
He found Sophie's page again and hit send.
On the other side of the city, in a cramped room piled high with sketches, Sophie Lee was staring blankly at her computer. On her tablet was a "Cute Heart-Kitty" requested by a client. Big eyes, pink cheeks, sweet smile. She drew it numbly, like a machine. Fifty bucks a pop.
Her phone chimed. A private message. She wanted to delete it instantly, but her finger moved as if possessed.
The moment that eerie, noise-filled green image hit her eyes, Sophie froze. Her stylus fell to the floor with a clatter.
That suffocating composition. That sense of raw despair. The sheer tension of a single image telling a complete horror story. This... this was exactly what she dreamed of drawing but could never capture.
Her breathing turned into shallow gasps. The "creative fire" she had suppressed for so long erupted like a volcano. Forgetting her social anxiety, she typed back as fast as her fingers could move.
??????
!!!!!!
Who are you?! Did you draw this?!!!!