The SUV hummed quietly beneath me, the low vibration pulsing through the leather seat like a slow heartbeat. Outside, the city slid past—blurred streaks of neon, the flash of streetlights bouncing off the blacked-out windows. Los Angeles at night always looked the same in every world: bright, dirty, desperate to impress.
I leaned my head against the glass, my reflection fractured by the passing light. The convoy moved smoothly down the coastal highway toward Venice Beach, engines muted and synchronized, like a small army slipping through enemy territory.
I knew what was waiting for me there—eyes, cameras, opportunists, the vultures of this world's entertainment empire. They'd been circling ever since Silent Hill: First Fear hit the net.
I exhaled, long and even. I knew the moment I created Meteor Studio; this world would never be the same.
That wasn't arrogance—it was simply a reality. This world had stagnated, creativity starved, everything recycled and hollow. And then I dropped a ghost into their lap that whispered their own sins back at them. It was bound to be massive.
And when the dust settled, Silent Hill: First Fear wasn't just a game. It was a game changer to the entire genre and gaming landscape.
And the reaction… yeah, it was inevitable.
The media went feral. The studios panicked. The fans? They lost their collective minds. Overnight, Meteor Studio became the messiah of "innovation," and I became the name whispered in the same breath as myth.
Funny thing though—when people start calling you a messiah, they don't mean it as a compliment.
I watched the skyline ahead, glass towers stabbing through the mist. It looked both familiar and wrong, like a memory from my old world painted over in cheaper colors.
Los Angeles, again. Always Los Angeles.
The world might've changed—but some ghosts never left.
My mind wandered as the city lights passed in slow waves.
I thought about everything that led here—the chain of creations that started the avalanche.
Silent Hill.
Then Millie and her meteoric rise in the music scene.
The novels that hit like sermons.
And Warhammer 40K: Space Marine, which detonated the gaming world with its unapologetic brutality.
Each one wasn't a project—it was a bomb.
And every time one went off, I could feel the tremor ripple through the old systems. The ancient entertainment machine groaning, wheezing, scrambling to catch up.
Now, they saw me as both salvation and apocalypse.
I chuckled softly under my breath, shaking my head.
"Hollywood's waiting for me like a starved dog," I muttered. "And at the same time, praying I never set foot on their turf."
The words hung in the quiet cabin, faintly amused and entirely true.
Kate turned her head toward me, her eyes soft but knowing. Without saying anything, she placed her hand on my arm. Just a small gesture, grounding, warm through the fabric of my jacket.
She didn't need to say "Don't let it get to you." She knew I wasn't spiraling—just observing. Watching the storm gather.
The interior of the lead SUV was a world of its own—muted lights, quiet hums of hidden machinery, the soft flicker of holographic displays reflecting off the tinted glass.
Sunday had taken full control of the vehicle's AI systems, after all, knowing how shitty the AI in this world were, I never trusted any AI or program other than her. her voice was smooth and deliberate, every word precisely measured.
"Convoy stable. ETA to Venice Beach: twelve minutes," she said.
"All Big Six studios have registered your presence in the city. Current sentiment: aggressive interest. Music labels are attempting direct contact through third-party proxies. Mouse Walt has offered one million dollars for access to Meteor Studio's internal tech documentation. Thundra Corp has matched the offer and dispatched their Development Leader to intercept you."
Her calm tone made it sound like a weather report instead of what it was—corporate warfare dressed as opportunity.
Ramona, sitting in the passenger seat, gave a low whistle.
"Boss, the way she knows every move these corporations make—it's scary," she said, shaking her head. "Like she's in their bedrooms… listening to everything,"
I couldn't help but smirk.
"She probably is," I replied dryly.
Ramona turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. "You serious?"
Sunday answered for me.
"Metaphorically speaking, yes. I maintain passive monitoring on seventy-six corporate networks and internal communications…. Their operational firewalls are inefficient."
Ramona blinked. "Right. Totally normal. Nothing creepy about that at all."
"Haha~ no need to be that spooked, Ramona… everyone out there were doing the same thing," Kate chuckled softly beside me, the tension in the car thinning for a moment.
I looked out through the tinted windshield, the faint gleam of the ocean just barely visible ahead. The neon from the pier flickered in the distance like a heartbeat.
All around us, unseen players were making moves. CEOs calling emergency meetings. Directors rewriting plans. Investors screaming into phones. All because one man—a stranger with too much vision and not enough fear—showed up with ideas that didn't belong here.
The asphalt ribbon of the highway unwound beneath the augmented reality of the city lights, a shimmering tapestry of neon and chrome.
Sunday, ever the precise navigator, slowed the vehicle smoothly, the subtle dip a whisper of their transition from the roaring artery of the main road to the quieter veins of the city's periphery. The air, even filtered through the car's advanced climate control, carried a faint, tantalizing ghost of salt, a promise of the vast, dark ocean that lay just beyond the urban sprawl.
Inside the cocoon of the moving vehicle, Ramona was still caught in a turbulent eddy of words, her head shaking with a persistent, almost aphasic rhythm.
"Actually… that kind of surveillance… kinda over the top, don't you think so, Sir?."
I caught her eye in the rearview mirror, a half-smile playing on my lips. The ocean's reflection winked back, a fleeting, cold fire.
"Of course it's scary, Ramona," I said, my voice a deliberate calm, a practiced evenness that belied the knot in my gut. It was the tone one used to explain why the sky was blue, or why the tides ebbed and flowed.
"But… Meteor Studio has to operate at this level. Otherwise," I paused, letting the implication hang heavy,
"How do you think we survive? When every titan out there, every corporate leviathan, wants nothing more than to crush us under their boot and feast on our bones?"
The casual pronouncement had an immediate, profound effect. The car fell into a hushed reverence. Even Sunday, the ever-present hum of her AI consciousness, seemed to dim her background processes, the subtle whirring of her processors softening to a near-imperceptible sigh, as if the silicon heart of the machine understood the stark, brutal truth of my words.
I let my gaze drift across the interior. Ramona's habitual, easy grin had vanished, replaced by a more thoughtful, almost wary expression. Kate's eyes, usually sharp and observant, were now fixed on me, a steady, analytical beam, searching for something beneath the surface. And then there was Sophia Kane.
One of Ramona's most prized assets, a field analyst whose elegance was matched only by the razor-sharp edge of her wit, leaned forward. The faint, ethereal glow of her datapad cast an almost spectral light on her strikingly icy blue eyes.
For a heart-stopping moment, the only sounds that dared to intrude were the soft, rhythmic whisper of the tires on the asphalt and the insistent, metronomic flick of the turn signal, its steady pulse a counterpoint to the charged silence within.
"Giants don't fall and rise by accident," I added, my voice dropping to a near whisper, a dangerous undertone seeping into its melodic surface.
"You either get swallowed whole, becoming another forgotten meal in their endless banquet, or," I met each of their gazes in turn, a chilling precision in my tone,
"You get in there first. You cut their throats before they even realize you're a threat."
Sophia's laugh, when it finally came, was a sound of pure, unadulterated mischief, a shard of ice slicing through the palpable tension in the SUV.
"Well, since you're the oracle, boss," she drawled, her British accent a warm, melodic counterpoint to the icy pronouncement, the teasing lilt in her voice a clear challenge,
"Why don't you enlighten us? Twenty years ago, the young prince of New Britain, a sweet boy they called Alaric, died. Mysteriously, of course. The official report claims it was a tragic accident. But," she leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with audacious curiosity,
"You, of all people, surely think otherwise, don't you?"
The air in the vehicle thickened, growing heavy with unspoken questions. Even Ramona, usually so composed, turned slightly in her seat, a flicker of genuine curiosity igniting in her gaze.
Kate's head snapped towards Sophia, her expression a sudden, sharp warning.
"Sophia," she said, her voice low and laced with admonishment.
"What?" Sophia retorted, her smile unwavering, a playful, almost innocent façade.
"It's a public mystery, isn't it? A historical footnote. Don't tell me you don't know, Sael." She tilted her head, a subtle, feline gesture of defiance, her gaze locking onto mine, the air crackling with the unspoken dare. She was a cat toying with a particularly intriguing mouse, testing boundaries she knew she shouldn't cross, but unable to resist the allure of the game.
I didn't immediately respond. I let the question hang in the air, a suspended moment of exquisite discomfort, feeling the delicate tendrils of tension coil and tighten around us. The faint scent of the ocean seemed to grow stronger, a primal hint of something vast and untamed.
Then, a slow smile spread across my face. It was a small smile, measured, almost cruel in its deliberate nature.
"Murder," I said, the single word dropping into the hushed silence like a perfectly aimed dart.
The word landed with the weight of a physical blow, rippling through the occupants of the car. Ramona blinked, her jaw slackening almost imperceptibly. Kate's poised stillness fractured, a visible jolt running through her. And Sophia's confident, taunting smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise, perhaps even apprehension.
"His sister," I clarified, the words delivered with a deliberate, casual shrug, as if I were merely relating a mundane piece of gossip.
"She killed him."
The confession echoed in the confined space, each syllable resonating with a dark, undeniable truth.
"Throne politics," I added, my voice soft, almost a murmur, as if I were sharing a secret whispered in the dark.
"That's the real story."
For a long, drawn-out moment, the only sound was the ceaseless, comforting drone of the road, a white noise that filled the vacuum of their stunned silence. Even Sunday, the ever-ready AI, seemed to hesitate, her internal processors whirring with a fractional delay.
"Would you like me to elaborate, Sir?" Sunday's voice, a smooth, synthesized alto, finally broke the spell.
"Please do," I prompted, my gaze fixed on the shimmering, distant lights of the coastal city. The faint tang of salt air was growing stronger, a welcome contrast to the recycled, sterile atmosphere of the studio's transport.
Sunday's synthesized voice, usually so smooth and devoid of inflection, took on a subtly different cadence. It was as if the AI, having processed my confirmation, was accessing a more granular, perhaps even more somber, layer of information.
"The late Prince Alaric of New Britain was the elder son of King Theron and Queen Lyra. His younger sister, Princess Elara, was next in line to the throne. The official cause of death was attributed to a tragic recreational sky-sledding accident in the Glacial Peaks. However, investigations—both official and unofficial—revealed inconsistencies."
I let Sunday continue, my mind already piecing together fragments of information I'd encountered in my previous life. Prince Alaric. Sky-sledding accident. It was a narrative I knew intimately, albeit from a vastly different context.
"Independent forensic analysis suggested a structural failure in the sled's primary stabilization unit, a component manufactured by a subsidiary of the Sterling Conglomerate, a rival to the royal family's own manufacturing interests. However, no culpability was ever established, and the report was swiftly buried by royal decree. Furthermore, witness testimonies from royal staff placed Princess Elara at the training grounds adjacent to the accident site mere minutes before the incident. She was reportedly observed engaging in a heated argument with the prince the previous evening, overheard by several stable hands. The subject of the dispute was rumored to be the King's health and the succession."
Sunday paused, allowing the weight of the information to settle. Then, it continued,
"Princess Elara, at the time, was deeply involved in a clandestine relationship with Lord Valerius, a rising figure within the Royal Guard and a known antagonist to Prince Alaric's more progressive policies. Lord Valerius also possessed significant holdings in… alternative energy sectors, which Prince Alaric consistently opposed, favoring more sustainable, albeit less immediately profitable, technologies."
Kate let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. Ramona's jaw was tight. Sophia, however, looked intrigued, the initial shock replaced by a sharp analytical glint in her eyes.
"The key element," Sunday continued, its voice lowering slightly, "was the timing. Princess Elara was scheduled to depart for an extended diplomatic mission to the Outer Rim colonies the day after the fatal accident. Her departure would have effectively placed her beyond the reach of any immediate inquiry. The 'accident' occurred just hours before her scheduled departure. The subsequent investigation was hampered by a lack of access to Princess Elara's personal communications and travel logs, which were officially declared 'lost' during the transition of power."
I finally met Sophia's gaze in the rearview mirror. My smile, which had been absent for a moment, returned. It was a knowing, almost predatory smile.
"You see, Sophia," I said, my voice low and steady, "Giants don't just fall. They are pushed…. And sometimes, the push comes from within the very family they're meant to lead."
The SUV was silent again, the weight of this revelation heavier than any previous conversation. The ocean air felt charged now, not just with salt and brine, but with the unspoken history of ambition, betrayal, and calculated murder.
"So you're saying," Sophia began, her voice hushed, "that she… she orchestrated his death? To secure her own claim to the throne?"
"Not just her claim," I corrected, leaning back against the plush leather seat. The hum of the tires was a familiar lullaby.
"But also, to pave the way for a future that benefited her allies. Lord Valerius, for instance. His 'alternative energy' ventures could only truly prosper with Alaric out of the picture, as Alaric was vehemently against their implementation due to their… significant environmental and societal risks."
I let my gaze drift back to the vast, dark expanse of the Pacific. "Throne politics," I reiterated.
"It's a brutal game. And when your own family is capable of murder, you learn very quickly to build your own defenses. Stronger ones."
Ramona was quiet now, her earlier anxieties about surveillance seeming almost trivial in comparison to the machinations of royal families. Kate's eyes were still on me, but the warning had shifted. It was no longer about my methods, but about the implications of my knowledge.
"And his sister?" Kate asked, her voice carefully neutral. "Princess Elara. What happened to her?"
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch of my lips. "She reigned for ten years. Her reign was… prosperous, by New Britain's standards. Though whispers of her ruthlessness persisted. Then, about five years ago, she too, met an unfortunate end. A rare, aggressive neurotoxin. Untraceable. Her son, Prince Kaelen, is on the throne now. A young man, easily influenced. And Lord Valerius… well, he's become quite the influential figure in the Senate."
I allowed myself a small, private sigh. The echoes of Earth's history, so often filled with tragedy and darkness, were remarkably persistent here. And the patterns of power, of betrayal, of siblings turning on siblings for kingdoms and influence, were universal.
"So, to recap," Sophia said, her voice regaining its usual sharp edge, though laced with a new respect,
"The young prince is dead, a victim of his own sister's ambition and her lover's greed. And his sister, the presumed murderer, later dies under suspicious circumstances, leaving the throne to her son, with the lover now holding significant power. That's quite the tangled web, Sael."
"It is," I agreed, my eyes scanning the approaching cityscape.
"And it's a reminder that no matter how advanced we become, how many technological marvels we create, the fundamental nature of power remains the same. It corrupts. It demands sacrifice. And it's always, always, about who gets to tell the story."
The car turned onto a narrower street, the opulent, yet faintly seedy, architecture of Venice Beach beginning to reveal itself in the dimming twilight. The air grew thicker with the scent of the ocean, the faint aroma of fried food, and something else… something vaguely chemical, a byproduct of the city's relentless industrial output.
"That's why," I continued, my voice firm, projecting a quiet authority that I hoped masked the underlying weariness,
"Meteor Studio, and everything we do, has to be about more than just entertainment. It has to be about control. Control of the narrative. Control of the future. If we don't build our own giants, if we don't make ourselves indispensable, then we are just another piece of debris waiting to be swept away by the next tidal wave."
I looked at each of them in turn. Ramona, her earlier jitters replaced by a determined focus. Sophia, her sharp intellect already dissecting the implications. Kate, her usual stoicism a mask for what I suspected was a deep, thoughtful consideration. And Sunday, the ever-present, ever-learning AI, processing every syllable, every nuance.
"And we," I added, my voice a low rumble, "are not going to be swept away. We are the wave. So, Sophia, about that prince… What was it you said? You thought it was an accident?" I allowed a wry smile to touch my lips.
"Sometimes, the most dangerous 'accidents' are the ones carefully planned."
The convoy expanded like a rolling fortress.
Ramona had made the call — no switching vehicles, no hiding our movement. If they wanted to watch, let them.
By the time we merged onto the freeway heading toward Venice Beach, six black armored SUVs rumbled in formation behind and ahead of us. Glossy, tinted, matte-edged — like beasts carved out of onyx.
People on the sidewalks stopped and stared as the line of black machines swept past, lights flashing, engines growling. Phones came up like a synchronized salute; flashes strobed through the tinted glass. Somewhere, someone shouted, "Who the hell is that?!"
The whole scene looked like something straight out of a presidential thriller — except this wasn't politics. It was showbiz power redefined.
I leaned against the seat, relaxed, a hand propped under my chin. Sunday was steering smoothly through the traffic. Her control of the self-drive interface was flawless; every lane change, every acceleration, perfect down to the millisecond.
On the HUD in front of me, streams of data flickered in faint blue text — facial recognition sweeps, drone trajectories, intercepted comm signals.
Sunday's voice was serene.
"Surveillance density rising. 43 local feeds linked to Mouse Walt Network. 19 civilian streamers broadcasting. Two paparazzi drones currently above lane seven."
"Any of them dangerous?" I asked, more out of curiosity than concern.
"Negative. None possess active weapons or hacking uplinks. But they are… enthusiastic."
I chuckled. "Aren't they all?"
Kate looked over, the faintest smile tugging her lips.
"You're enjoying this, way too much, Honey"
"Of course," I said. "It is kinda fun."
And I was having fun actually; I was able to thanks to Sunday controlling everything properly. Every signal, every whisper, every face waiting for me in Venice was already mapped in real time. Sunday had built a predictive chart — what they'd say, who they'd call, what they'd leak. It was like watching a play I'd already written.
Outside, Los Angeles glowed under the sunset — a city of glass and greed. The giants of media had watched me rise from the shadows, unable to comprehend how someone outside their system could move this fast, this far. Now, they were going to witness it firsthand. Slowly we arrived on the scene.
And Venice Beach was in chaos.
I can feel it the moment we pulled up near Folly Comics' seaside building — a squat, glass-walled structure half-covered in banners and peeling posters.
People were already gathered on the sidewalk, some in office wear, others in beach shorts and sandals, phones raised. There was shouting — the kind of raw, stupid yelling that only comes from wounded pride and too much caffeine.
At the center of it all, two grown men in suits were literally fighting.
Steve Kisonli, CEO of Folly Comics — gray-haired, thick glasses, trying to swing like a bar brawler.
Mike Iger, the Operations Manager — thinner, balding, red-faced — was grappling with him like a cornered animal.
They were cursing, punching, stumbling over each other like drunk wrestlers. A few bystanders clapped and cheered like it was part of the show.
Ramona groaned. "You've got to be kidding me…"
Kate pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "Dear God, professionals."
A ping echoed in my earpiece — Sabine's voice, crisp and steady.
"Boss, we've confirmed the reason for the altercation…. Mike was selling your arrival info, and Steve found out about it…. That's what triggered it."
I couldn't help it — a low laugh escaped me. "So, treachery and stupidity…. Classic."
Ramona frowned. "You're not actually amused by this, are you?"
"Oh, I'm absolutely amused," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "Two men who wanted to impress me ended up turning each other into a street performance? That's poetic."
Kate gave me a look that said you're impossible.
"Sunday, maintain scan perimeter. No one gets close," I said as the door hissed open.
"Acknowledged, Sir."
The moment my shoes touched the pavement, the crowd's attention shifted like a wave. Heads turned. Phones rose. A few whispers spread, fast and electric.
"It's him—Sael VT—holy shit, it's actually him."
"No way, that's Meteor Studio's founder—"
I ignored them all, slipping my hands into my pockets as I strolled down the sidewalk. The air smelled like salt and fried oil. Somewhere close, the ocean murmured. And over the noise of shouting men, I caught the faint hiss of a grill.
I veered off toward a little food stand a few steps from the comic building — a simple cart with a faded umbrella, the smell of sizzling sausage thick in the air.
The vendor was an older Mexican man; his apron stained with mustard and time. He looked up as I approached, squinting through the steam.
He studied me for a long moment. Then, in Spanish, he asked, "Tú… ¿eres Sael VT?"
I smiled faintly, answering in his language. "Sí. Tal vez." (Yes. Maybe.)
His brow furrowed. "¿Eres español?"
"Tal vez," I said again, with a shrug.
He laughed, a raspy, knowing sound. "You sound like trouble, hijo."
"Depends on the day," I replied.
He started preparing the order before I even said a word. "How many?"
"Enough for my people," I said, glancing back toward the convoy. "Six cars' worth."
He gave a low whistle. "Damn, chico, you feeding an army."
"Something like that."
As he lined up the buns and sausages, I watched the fight still going on a few meters away — Steve and Mike, both panting, half their ties torn off, surrounded by laughing employees who were definitely recording everything.
I looked back at the vendor. "You ever get tired of watching stupid people?"
He grinned. "It pays, señor."
I chuckled. Fair enough.
He handed me the paper bags one by one, his tone softening. "You should release a Spanish song, hijo. Something with fire… We miss that… you are Spanish man, do something for the community then,"
I gave him a lazy grin. "Later."
"Promise?"
"Maybe."
He laughed again. "Always maybe... but hey, it' good enough,"
I tipped him well. "Gracias, viejo."
"De nada, chico. Go make more chaos."
"Oh," I said, glancing at the brawling executives. "Already happening."
When I walked back, Kate and the others had stepped out of the SUV, standing a few meters behind me, clearly embarrassed by the ongoing circus. Ramona had her arms crossed, her expression flat.
"Is this what we came for?" she muttered.
"Apparently," Kate said dryly.
I didn't answer. I was too entertained.
Steve — exhausted, furious — had just managed to get Mike in a headlock. Mike's comb-over was completely gone, ripped out in tufts. His scalp was red and shining like polished marble.
The crowd was laughing. Some were chanting. Someone actually yelled, "WORLDSTAR!"
Then, in one final, pitiful act of rage, Steve gave Mike a shove. Mike stumbled back, screaming, and fell onto the pavement, clutching his head like he'd been shot.
Steve stood there, panting heavily, chest heaving, tie hanging askew.
I approached him slowly, the smell of grilled onions still clinging to me. When he looked up, he froze — recognition dawning like a delayed explosion.
"Mr… Mr. Sael—"
I handed him a hotdog.
He blinked. "I—what—?"
"You're evil," I said, smirking. "Turning the man's last oasis into a desert. I like that."
He just stared, speechless, the hotdog halfway to his mouth.
"My name's Sael," I added, extending a hand.
His fingers twitched, then he awkwardly took it — one hand still holding the hotdog, the other shaking mine in disbelief.
Ramona sighed behind me. "Subtle as always, boss."
"Subtlety is overrated," I said.
Kate muttered something under her breath about "public relations nightmares," but there was a hint of amusement in her tone.
Steve finally found his voice. "I… I can't believe you're actually here—"
"You say that like I'm a ghost," I interrupted. "Relax, Steve…. We're here to talk business. But first—" I gestured to the food bags behind me, "—eat. It's going to be a long afternoon for you."
Mike groaned from the ground, still cradling his scalp. I glanced at him.
"Get up. You're bleeding incompetence all over the pavement."
The crowd laughed, unsure if they were allowed to.
Mike scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with a mix of pain and humiliation. "Y-yes, sir."
I turned toward the building, the sound of the ocean swelling behind us, the taste of smoke and salt mingling in the air. The sun had fully dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky an electric violet.
Behind me, the convoy idled like a pack of black beasts waiting for command. Ahead, Folly Comics stood trembling — half ruin, half opportunity.