8: A lobbyist who appeared out of nowhere

Cheng Mo pushed open the iron door of the basement, and the cold wind immediately poured into his collar. He lowered his head and glanced at his right hand; the index finger joint still had a dry, dark red line of scraped blood left over from when he had broken a pen drawing on the wall. The backpack strap had worn a deep mark into his shoulder, but he didn't adjust it. He hadn't stepped out of the building for seven days, and the air outside smelled like expired instant noodle seasoning.

He stood in front of the convenience store's glass door, the self-heating instant noodles in his hand still sealed. The screen countdown was still running in his mind: six days and twenty-one hours. He knew time was short, and he knew the game hadn't been uploaded yet. But he knew even more that he had to catch his breath now.

A man in a black suit walked over from the side. His leather shoes were so polished they reflected his image. He held a brown folder with “Tencent Aurora Project” embossed in gold on the cover. He stopped and said in an unhurried tone, “Mr. Cheng, CEO Wang sent me to discuss a partnership.”

Cheng Mo didn't move. He stared at the ID badge on the man's chest, which had no name, only a number and a QR code. He had seen people like this at industry exhibitions, specializing in absorbing small teams. They spoke like customer service agents but had the eyes of hunting dogs.

“Sign the exclusive agency agreement, and you can move into a top-floor duplex in Lujiazui tomorrow.” The suit opened the folder. “Your team will expand to a hundred people, we'll provide the servers, and handle all market promotion. You just need to keep making games.”

Cheng Mo lowered his head to look at the contract. The first page read “Full Operational Authority,” and the second read “Copyright Belongs to Tencent.” He suddenly recalled his university days, when his roommate finished a casual match-three game that topped the bestseller list in three months. At the celebration party, he smoked on the balcony and said, “I've forgotten how to lose now.”

The next day, he was gone.

Cheng Mo stuffed the instant noodles into the trash can. The plastic bag gave a crisp sound. He pulled the modified controller out of his backpack, tapped it against his palm, click. He was familiar with this sound; he made it every time he decided to cause trouble.

“Tell CEO Wang,” he said, “my game is not a commodity.”

The man in the suit frowned.

“It's an instrument of torture,” Cheng Mo looked at him, “It's only for those who haven't gone numb yet.”

The other party was silent for two seconds, then closed the folder. “You will regret this.” He turned and took two steps, then stopped. “But CEO Wang said he has seen many people like you.”

The sound of footsteps faded away.

Cheng Mo didn't look back. He looked up at the cluster of office buildings in the distance; the blue “Tencent” logo on the top of the tallest one flashed intermittently. The wind messed up his hair, and the silver stud in his right ear glinted under the streetlamp.

He took out his phone, and the screen lit up. The upload interface was already open, the file name was Jump_Nightmare_Alpha_0.1.exe. The progress bar was empty, and the publish button was at the bottom. His finger hovered above it, but he didn't press down.

He knew that once he pressed it, there would be no turning back.

He also knew that the outside world wouldn't let him release a game in peace.

Sure enough. His phone vibrated. A text message from an unfamiliar number read: “We suggest reconsidering the partnership. Some resources, once missed, are gone.”

Cheng Mo sneered. He deleted the text message and put the phone back in his pocket. Just then, he heard a sizzling electrical sound coming from the internet cafe sign. The blue light flickered on and off, as if urging him.

He took a step forward, stopping under the streetlamp. Behind him was the internet cafe open all night, and in front was the empty street. A shared bicycle lay overturned by the roadside, and its basket held a rain-soaked game flyer, advertising a new work from a major company, whose protagonist's smile looked particularly fake.

He remembered what Chen Hao had said: “What you make will cause players to break down.”

He also remembered how he had replied: “Then let them break down. At least they'll still know what suffering feels like.”

Now, it was his turn to suffer.

Capital had arrived. Carrying money, carrying resources, wearing the mask of “doing this for your own good.” They didn't say “buy you,” they said “support you.” They didn't mention control, only “win-win.” But the first thing they always wanted was the copyright.

Cheng Mo didn't want to sell.

He wasn't being noble. He was afraid. Afraid that one day he would sit in an office, tweaking figures on a PPT, adjusting drop rates for a 0.1% increase in daily active users, and ultimately not even daring to let people experience “failure” once.

He wasn't afraid of being criticized. He was afraid of no one criticizing him.

He wasn't afraid of being poor. He was afraid of becoming safe.

His phone vibrated again. It was still the same number: “Last reminder, opportunity waits for no one.”

Cheng Mo didn't even look this time. He took out the modified controller and plugged it into the phone's OTG Port. The worn part of the joystick pricked his hand, but he gripped it tighter. This was the seventh time he had replaced the casing; the previous six had been broken during testing.

He opened local debugging mode and brought up the first level of the leap platform nightmare》. Three platforms, randomly changing spacing, rotating pixel background. He played it once.

He jumped too fast and fell.

He waited too long and also fell.

The third time, he timed it perfectly and jumped across. The screen shook the instant he landed, he misjudged the distance, and missed the fourth jump.

Five consecutive failures.

He only cleared the level on the sixth attempt.

The settlement page popped up: [You survived. But this is not a victory.]

He smiled. His laugh was a little hoarse.

This was what he wanted. Not satisfaction, not rewards, but that frustrating feeling of “almost, but not quite.” It was the player's hesitation a second before smashing the keyboard.

He knew no one would advertise this kind of game.

He knew this kind of game would be severely criticized.

He knew this kind of game might not last three days.

But he was going to release it anyway.

He unplugged the controller and looked back at the phone screen. The publish button was still there, gray, waiting to be activated.

Just as his fingertip touched the screen, a new notification suddenly popped up on his phone. It wasn't a text message, it was an email. The title read: “Copyright Pre-warning Notice Regarding leap platform nightmare》.”

The sender was a law firm, signed on behalf of the Tencent Game Strategy Department.

Cheng Mo stared at the line of text, not getting angry. Instead, he felt relieved. They were getting anxious.

As soon as they started using legal letters to scare people, it meant they were afraid.

He opened the email and quickly scanned the contents. The gist was: The game mechanism allegedly copied a certain unreleased project, and it was suggested that the release process be suspended.

“Bullshit,” he muttered.

He knew the lead planner of that so-called “unreleased project.” Last year, that person had criticized his design on a forum for being too anti-human. Yet, the match-three game they made shut down two weeks after launch.

Cheng Mo immediately marked the email as spam. He returned to the upload interface, his finger hovering over the publish button once more.

The wind grew stronger. The internet cafe sign behind him flashed three times and suddenly went dark. Only one streetlamp remained lit on the entire street.

He didn't flinch.

He knew what would happen next.

The game would launch, reviews would be overwhelmingly negative, and refunds would soar.

Then the system would activate, the rating would spike instead, and the recommendation slot would automatically push it up.

Following that would be a second wave of suppression—maybe delisting, maybe reports, maybe an attack by hired trolls.

He was ready for all of it.

He wasn't afraid of trouble.

He was afraid of everything going too smoothly.

He took one last look in the direction of the Tencent building. The string of letters was still flashing, as if mocking him, the lunatic standing under the streetlamp.

He smiled faintly, and his finger came down.

The upload progress began to run.

1%.

He stood still.

2%.

The phone screen reflected his face, unshaven, eyes red, but his gaze was impossibly steady.

3%.

He heard a car engine sound in the distance; a black commercial van was turning the corner, moving slowly, its windows tinted, making it impossible to see inside.

4%.

The vehicle stopped ten meters away from him. The door didn't open. But the driver's side window slowly rolled down.

A hand wearing a white glove reached out and rested gently on the window ledge.

Cheng Mo didn't look at the vehicle. He stared at the progress bar.

5%.

His finger remained pressed against the screen.