Chapter 72: Preparation

Chapter 72: Chapter 72: PreparationErnesto’s office had the kind of silence that made Jack’s back straighten the moment he stepped in. Polished floor. Minimalist décor. No clutter, no mess. Just sharp lines and sharper expectations. The large whiteboard loomed on one side like a scoreboard waiting to judge.

Ernesto didn’t look up from his monitor. He just gestured with two fingers to the chairs.

Jack muttered under his breath as he sat. "I miss our dev room already."

Richard gave him a look that meant don’t start, but said nothing.

Ernesto finally looked up. Calm. Direct.

"Decision-Making Frameworks. Then Rockstar prep."

He folded his hands on the desk. "Let’s start with the frameworks. Jack. Richard. You built this from a garage project to a multi-million dollar machine. That’s genius. Now my job is making sure that genius doesn’t burn itself out."

He leaned forward just enough to let the weight of the moment settle.

"You have equity. You have the say. But that say must be informed. Not instinctive. Not impulsive."

Jack shifted in his seat. "You always open with the fun stuff."

Ernesto didn’t blink. He stood and walked to the whiteboard. Drew a simple grid. Two columns.



Costs | Benefits

"First. The blunt instrument of business thinking. Cost-Benefit Analysis."

He turned to face them. "This isn’t just about money. It’s about time. Focus. Dev hours. Lost opportunities. Every feature you greenlight? That’s a feature you said no to elsewhere. Every pivot? It’s a risk."

Jack smirked. "So if we add, say, a super dynamic weather system with destructible storms, we just list ’epic immersion’ under benefits?"

Ernesto paused. Then: "No."

His stare was glassy. Cold.

"You list ’potential for 15% increase in session time based on similar AAA benchmarks.’ You list ’licensing potential to other studios with similar game environments.’ Then under costs: ’2,400 developer hours,’ ’risk of introducing instability to core engine,’ ’delay to deployment schedule.’"

He tapped the board. "If you can’t quantify it, you’re guessing. And this—" he rapped the table "—is too big now to run on guesswork."

Richard nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "That’s fair."

Ernesto erased the board. Replaced it with something more intricate. Rows. Columns. Titles.

Criteria | Weight | Option A | Option B | Option C

"For more complex choices—where all options have merit—you use this. Weighted Decision Matrix."

He wrote:

Market Demand

Development Cost

Strategic Fit

Revenue Potential

Competitive Advantage

Then beside each, he added numbers.

"Assign weights to each. What matters most? Revenue might be 40%. Feasibility 20%. And so on."

He continued, filling example scores.

"You score each feature against each criterion. Multiply by the weights. Add up the totals. You do this for all options. Highest score wins."

Jack blinked. "So... it’s like turning gut calls into spreadsheets?"

"No," Ernesto said. "It’s turning noise into clarity. So when your team questions why you went with Option B, you have an answer that’s grounded. Not ’felt right at the time.’ You protect the company from your own enthusiasm."

Jack looked at Richard. "You’re loving this, aren’t you?"

Richard smirked. "It’s like building a logic engine. Just... for people."

Ernesto returned to his seat. His voice softened just enough.

"You don’t have to love it. But you need to respect it. Because the more powerful you get, the more damage a bad call can do. Not just to the company. To the people under you. The developers building the game. The families behind your employees. You screw up now? It ripples."

Jack sat back. "Yeah. Okay. I get it."

Ernesto folded his hands. "Now. Let’s talk about the line you don’t cross."

Jack blinked. "What, like a company rulebook?"

"No," Ernesto said. "Like a recklessness clause."

He pointed at the whiteboard—at the frameworks they’d just gone over. "My job is to manage this company. Keep it afloat. Grow it. That means sometimes, I’m the brake. You two? You’re the engine. But if that engine starts going off cliffs for no reason, I pull the plug."

Richard leaned forward, frowning slightly. "So... what defines ’reckless,’ exactly?"

Ernesto tapped the board. "This. If your decision contradicts the clear outcome of a well-run cost-benefit or weighted analysis—if you push for something despite the data saying no—and you can’t present new facts, or a detailed risk strategy that explains why we’re taking that path anyway... that’s reckless."

Jack raised a brow. "So if the numbers say ’don’t,’ but we feel something’s revolutionary—"

"You bring proof," Ernesto cut in. "You bring new metrics. Projections. Scenarios. You convince me. Not with ’we just believe it’ll work.’ With logic. Foresight. Worst-case contingencies. Show me how you mitigate the risks. Otherwise..." He paused. "We’re just gambling. And I don’t gamble with people’s jobs."

The room stayed quiet.

Jack stared at the floor, then exhaled. "So your ’openness to ideas’ comes with conditions."

"It comes with discipline," Ernesto said. "That’s the difference between amateurs and professionals. Amateurs fight to be heard. Professionals fight to be understood."



He stood, grabbed the remote, and changed the screen. The Rockstar logo appeared. Below it, the words: Meeting Agenda – Strategic Integration Discussion.

"Now let’s talk about tomorrow."

Richard sat up straighter.

"Alright," Ernesto said, voice low and calm but loaded with purpose. "Decision-Making Frameworks. We’re applying them directly to tomorrow’s Rockstar meeting. This isn’t just about Phoenix AI. This is about industry position. Control. Power."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Sounds dramatic."

"It is," Ernesto said. "You’ve built a crown jewel. My role now is to make sure it’s treated as such. Not as a novelty. Not as a tool. As the cornerstone of the next shift in this industry. And Rockstar knows it."

Richard leaned in, brows slightly furrowed. He was listening differently now.

Ernesto tapped the remote. The display shifted to a diagram of Rockstar’s current engine, with projected integration points for Phoenix AI.

"First," Ernesto said, "Cost-Benefit Analysis. Let’s break this down."

He pointed at the screen. "Benefits to them: reduced development time. Smarter NPCs. AI-directed world-building that eliminates weeks of scripting. Better QA outcomes. Market perception of innovation. Put numbers on each. If we don’t, they will."

He switched slides.

"Now, the cost—to us. Dev hours supporting integration. Legal overhead. Potential bleed of proprietary tech. The risk of poor implementation damaging Phoenix AI’s reputation. Even opportunity cost—what we’re not doing because we’re babysitting their pipeline."

Richard scratched his chin. "So if their systems require heavy rework, the licensing fee has to justify the drain. Otherwise it’s a loss."

"Exactly," Ernesto said. "This isn’t charity. We’re not doing it for exposure. Every line of code diverted from Vector Core’s roadmap is a cost. You quantify it. Every time."

Jack whistled low. "So... no more gut calls, huh?"

"Not unless you back it with data."

The projector clicked again, now showing a complex grid.

"Next," Ernesto said, "Weighted Decision Matrix."

The board lit up with options: Full Alliance with Rockstar, Limited Cooperation, Independent Expansion, Strategic Alliance with Indie Studio.

"This is the bigger picture," he said. "Rockstar’s not the only game in town. You want to think long-term? Think about how Phoenix AI positions us against EA. Ubisoft. Epic. Those companies built fortresses. We’re building the siege engine."

He began filling out criteria. "Preservation of Core IP. Market Reach. Revenue Growth. Strategic Leverage. Developer Freedom."

He added weights next to each. "You want freedom to build without compromise? That’s a 30% weight. You want global reach? 25%. What’s worth sacrificing, and what’s not?"

Jack stared at the grid. "So even full integration might rank lower than licensing, depending on what we value most."

Ernesto nodded. "And if you walk in tomorrow without these values clear? They’ll define them for you."

Richard’s eyes darkened with focus.

"But let’s say they push," Ernesto continued. "They want exclusivity. Ownership. They offer big numbers."

He paused.

"That’s the redline."

Jack glanced over. "You think they’ll do that?"

"They’ll try. This is chess. And they’re going to test your confidence."

Richard’s voice came quiet, but clear. "So we bring a walk-away strategy."

"You bring two," Ernesto said. "A fallback and a counter-offer. What’s our pivot if we walk away? Who else benefits from what Phoenix AI can do? Maybe a smaller studio hungry for relevance. Maybe a non-gaming tech giant who wants in on real-time AI. You turn their no into leverage somewhere else."

The screen shifted again—this time a network map. Bytebull at the center. Lines branching to Rockstar, to smaller studios, to Epic and EA, to satellite companies and new markets.

Ernesto stepped back. "This is the board. This is the war. You don’t just survive it. You shape it."

Jack was quiet.

Richard didn’t blink.

Ernesto gave them a beat before speaking again. "Tomorrow, they’ll ask about our future together. You don’t say we ’fit well.’ You say our AI delivers a 35% boost in iteration speed, cuts QA overhead, and redefines AI scalability in procedural environments."

He looked at Jack. "You talk features. You push creativity and narrative potential."

Then at Richard. "You talk architecture. You walk them through the back-end efficiencies, the scalable infrastructure, the real-world metrics."

They nodded.



Ernesto leaned forward one last time.

"And when they push for more than we’re willing to give, you don’t get emotional. You get surgical."

The room went still.

No more slides. No more frameworks.

Just silence. Heavy. Electric.

Finally, Ernesto nodded. "You’re ready. Don’t prove me wrong." S~eaʀᴄh the Nôvelƒire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

They stood slowly. Jack grabbed the tablet. Richard already had a new file open—labeled "Phoenix AI – Strategic Walkaways."

As they left the office, the hum of the dev floor returned faintly beneath their footsteps.

Jack glanced at Richard. "He’s not just teaching us how to pitch."

Richard didn’t look up. "No."

Jack gave a small, honest laugh.

"He’s teaching us how to play the game."