The last two days on the internet had been pure chaos.
It wasn't just one headline. It was a full-on news storm—one trending topic after another, stacking like neon ads in a rainy alley.
"2077 Demo Released, Shocks the Entire Network!"
"LilySixSix Announces Her Relationship — Her Boyfriend of Many Years Is Actually HIM!"
"National Manhunt for the Traitor YJJ!"
"Pick Love: Put Down the Virtual, Embrace Reality, Make Your Move and Choose!"
"Northstar Games' New Release Is a Massive Win!"
"Northstar Games Teases Another Release in April — They Want This to Be Their Year!"
"Cyberpunk 2077 Second Trailer Drops — Northstar Games Is About to Go Loud!"
And out of all that noise, the biggest spark was still the same: Pick Love.
Northstar Games' newest title was small, cheap, and ridiculously addictive—one of those story-driven experiences that people finished in a single sitting and then sat there, staring at the screen like they'd been personally attacked.
The ratings didn't lie.
On ReviewHub, the score blasted up to 9.1, and on Skybound it climbed even higher, landing at 9.4 approval.
That kind of score wasn't normal.
That kind of score was the internet screaming, "This one hit me in the chest, and I hate that I loved it."
And the price?
Nine yuan.
Basically pocket change.
In the city, even kids carried more than that these days. Skipping one breakfast could buy you the whole game. For adults, it wasn't even a question.
So sales went insane.
By the third day, Pick Love broke 1.5 million sales, making it the fastest-selling Northstar release so far.
Of course, people inside the industry understood why it happened.
First, the price was low enough to feel like a joke.
Second, Pick Love had the same "viral" energy that Northstar's older hit Getting Over It once had—except this time, it wasn't rage and suffering driving the hype.
It was emotion.
The funny part was that a huge number of buyers didn't even buy Pick Love to play it.
They bought it to support Northstar Games.
Because it wasn't the kind of game you replayed ten times. It was like a movie—one powerful run, then you remembered it forever. And once you watched an influencer's breakdown or saw a full playthrough, you usually didn't feel the urge to do it again.
Still, Northstar didn't mind.
Inside the company, the mood was almost celebratory.
Sure, after a week, the game probably wouldn't push beyond two million. That was expected. A short story game always peaks early.
But Northstar wasn't worried about that.
They were worried about something else.
Awards.
This year, Northstar's games from last year had been nominated all over the place.
Their monster-catching hit and their cozy farming game were basically guaranteed wins. It wasn't even suspense anymore—it was a matter of showing up, smiling for the cameras, and carrying trophies home like groceries.
Even their fighting game had a huge chance to win too. Its player count was still strong, and globally it was dominating the genre. You didn't become the most played fighting game in the world by accident.
And now, every exhibition and awards committee was sending the same polite message:
"Please be sure to attend in person."
Yeah. Right.
If it were only nominations, nobody would beg them to show up.
This was a trophy pickup. Multiple trophy pickups.
Which meant Northstar had to send people—real people, important people—to stand on stage and accept awards in front of cameras.
Domestic awards were easy.
International ones were a different beast.
A round trip overseas could eat five days like nothing, and that was if flights were smooth and schedules didn't get messy.
Meanwhile, their biggest project was still hanging over everything like a neon storm cloud.
Cyberpunk 2077.
The whole world was asking about it.
Platforms were asking about it.
Players were demanding it.
Even Steam was poking them like an impatient landlord.
In the conference room on the seventh floor, Northstar's core team sat around the table, looking half tired and half dangerous.
Jason Cole sat in the corner with a notebook, trying his best to look calm while his heart did backflips.
Not long ago, he wouldn't even have been allowed in this room.
But after shipping two successful projects, he finally had the right to sit with the monsters.
And to be fair—he was doing great.
One of his games had around 70,000 daily active users, the other hovered near 50,000. That was serious performance. And once cross-promotions kicked in, once advertisements rolled out, once brand collabs started… both games would climb.
Jason should've been proud.
But right now, sitting in this room, he felt like a small fish thrown into a tank full of sharks.
Because everyone here had built something bigger.
Daniel and Luo Yang sat near Ethan Reed like they belonged there. They were young—much younger than Jason—but they had already produced multiple hit games.
Evan Cross sat with them too, and even his silence carried weight. Being the producer behind their monster-catching phenomenon alone made him untouchable. Any company on earth would try to recruit him. He didn't need a resume—his games were his passport.
And then there was Vivian Frost.
Vivian wore a brown vest like she owned the world, tapped the documents on the table, and spoke like she was cutting through noise with a blade.
"Forget Steam," she said. "Let them panic. We're not rushing a game that isn't ready. Right now, our real issue is choosing who goes to collect the awards."
Ethan Reed stood behind her, watching her like a man who had already lost the war. He looked perfectly serious on the outside, but anyone who knew him could tell he was thinking about everything except awards.
Like the way Vivian's presence filled the room.
Like how their contact was still limited to hugs and handholding.
Like how the happiest part of his day was when Vivian drove him home, because he could steal tiny moments beside her, even if she always slapped his hand away the second he got too bold.
Vivian didn't notice Ethan's thoughts, or maybe she did and pretended she didn't.
Daniel raised his hand immediately.
"Boss, I'm not going," he said without hesitation. "I'm buried. The demo is done, but polish and bug-hunting is everything. It has to be released this month, no accidents."
He wasn't exaggerating.
The second trailer on BiliZone had already crossed fourteen million views, with insane engagement. Just the revenue from that official upload was enough to cover someone's monthly salary.
Cyberpunk 2077 wasn't just a game anymore.
It was a national obsession.
Evan Cross sighed and followed up.
"Luo Yang and I can't go either. Pick Love is finished, but we're deep into Fireworks. That game has to ship in April. So for the monster game and the fighting game awards… someone else has to handle it."
He said "Fireworks" like it was sacred.
Because it was.
That project wasn't about money or hype. It was about making something that could scar players in the best possible way—something that would stay inside them long after the credits rolled.
The room got quiet.
Vivian's eyes narrowed slightly, like she was calculating how to throw the whole company into a suitcase and carry it to an award show herself.
"You don't want to go?" she said. "This is an international stage. It's publicity. It's exposure. It's a chance to be seen."
Daniel shrugged. "There will be more chances. But games don't build themselves."
Evan Cross leaned back. "If Fireworks lands the way we want, we'll be on stage again anyway."
Then, with a cruel grin, he added, "And Ethan Reed is the one who promised players our release schedule in the first place."
All eyes turned to Ethan.
Vivian slowly turned her head too.
"Lead Planner Ethan," she said. "Anything you'd like to say?"
Ethan spread his hands with absolute sincerity.
"Boss, I can't go either. Anyone in Northstar can be replaced for a week. I can't. The quality checks depend on me."
Vivian's face twitched.
"So you want me to go overseas alone?" she said. "You know my English isn't good."
That was true.
She could understand slow speech. But fast talk? She'd smile politely and become a clueless baby in real time.
And the idea of standing on stage and saying, "Hello, nice to meet you," while the world watched?
Vivian's cheeks turned slightly pink just imagining it.
She didn't want to be the company mascot.
She wanted to be the light of domestic gaming.
The discussion spiraled.
Translator? Crash-course English training? Remote acceptance?
Then Ethan, like the devil on her shoulder, added casually:
"You shouldn't go either. If you go, who will drive me home after work?"
Vivian stared at him like she wanted to throw the documents in his face.
But she didn't.
Because she didn't fully hate the idea of being needed.
In the end, Ethan's eyes drifted across the room.
"We need someone management-level," he said. "Someone important enough to represent us."
Everyone's expressions changed.
Like they all arrived at the same solution at the same time.
Then they looked together—perfectly in sync—at the woman in the corner who had been eating snacks in peace.
Rachel Quinn froze mid-bite.
"Why are you all looking at me?" she demanded. "What does the game department's mess have to do with the animation department?"
The room stayed silent.
Rachel's eyes widened.
"No. Absolutely not. I don't understand games! You want me to walk on stage and collect awards?"
Vivian gave a small, innocent smile.
Ethan nodded seriously. "Animation and games have always been connected."
Rachel shot up like she'd been electrocuted.
"I have work! Fireworks! I have to draw fireworks! I'm the artist!"
Vivian waved her hand. "Our artists are back. The game art team can handle it."
Rachel looked like she was about to cry.
Ethan smiled like a saint. "You're an important member of Northstar Games. You'll do great."
Rachel clenched her fists in pure rage, striking a dramatic "rock monster" pose at them.
"You criminals," she whispered, almost shaking.
The meeting ended with one final decision:
Rachel Quinn booked a flight for mid-March.
Northstar's first diplomat had been chosen… by force.
And then the real explosion arrived.
March 21st. 3:00 PM.
On the Official Blog, a single post from Northstar Games appeared.
The message was short enough to be cruel:
"6 PM. Cyberpunk 2077 demo officially released. Free trial. Countdown: 2:59:59."
Attached was an image that looked like corrupted code.
Blood-red graffiti smeared across the background, while yellow lightning shaped the word CYBERPUNK, and crooked blue lightning formed the numbers 2077.
The internet caught fire instantly.
Forums lit up like infected networks.
Every gaming board got flooded.
Every chat group got hijacked.
By 4 PM, the topic hit the top trending lists.
By 5 PM, it was pushing into the top three.
This wasn't normal.
Single-player games almost never broke into that territory.
But Cyberpunk 2077 wasn't being treated like a single-player game anymore.
It was a cultural event.
At 5:30 PM, Skybound's platform started choking under the traffic.
Servers screamed.
Admins panicked.
Expansions began immediately.
Because Skybound had to survive this.
At 5:44 PM, Skybound's backend data updated:
17 million online users. A historic peak.
At 5:55 PM, the numbers refreshed again:
20 million online users. The record shattered.
At 5:59 PM, the entire platform felt like it was holding its breath.
Players refreshed nonstop.
Hands hovered over mice.
Eyes stayed locked to screens.
Then—
17:59:50.
The Skybound interface froze.
For one terrifying second, everyone thought the servers had finally died.
Then the screen expanded.
Flickered.
And suddenly, red and green letters began flashing rapidly like a malfunctioning terminal.
Players stared, confused, nervous, thrilled.
Then—
BOOM.
The screen looked like it got smashed from the inside.
An iron-clad fist punched through the "monitor," cracked the digital glass, and reached out like it was breaking into reality itself.
It grabbed a wire.
Yanked hard.
And the world went dark for a beat.
Then a distorted, mechanically synthesized voice crackled through the speakers—half static, half threat, half invitation:
"Welcome to… Night City!"
And in that moment, every player knew:
Northstar Games had just started a war—and the whole world had shown up to watch.
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