Richard rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness that had settled in his limbs. His body ached from sitting too long, but his mind was too wired to rest.
The AMFS could wait—it wasn't like it would assemble itself overnight. Right now, there was something more urgent.
The game.
He sighed. Jack hates working alone.
Leaving his room, he stepped into the hallway. The air was cooler out here, the silence of the house making the faint hum of the estate's power system more noticeable. He could hear distant voices—probably from the television in the living room. As he approached the staircase, his path was suddenly blocked.
Estello.
The old man sat comfortably on the couch, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. He barely turned his head, acknowledging Richard's presence with a slow glance.
"Oh, Richie." His voice carried that familiar weight, somewhere between casual indifference and fatherly authority. "I thought I told you to rest?"
Richard scratched the back of his neck. "I can't. I'm too restless doing nothing." He gestured vaguely toward the stairs. "Besides, Jack's alone in the basement."
Estello stared at him for a long moment, unreadable as ever. Then, without another word, he gave a small nod and waved him off.
No lecture. No nagging.
Richard took that as his cue. He turned and made his way down the stairs.
The basement office was dim, its atmosphere soaked in neon glow. Purple strip LEDs ran along the ceiling edges, giving the space an almost cyberpunk aesthetic. The studio's signage—ByteBull—glowed faintly green behind the glass wall, casting an eerie reflection across the room.
Jack sat hunched over his desk, illuminated by the glow of his monitor, his fingers drumming restlessly against the tabletop. His hair was a mess, like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. A whiteboard stood behind him, crammed with notes, flowcharts, and rough sketches of mission outlines.
Richard could tell from the way Jack sat—slouched, unmoving—that he was stuck.
Jack didn't even look up when Richard entered. He just let out an exaggerated groan and waved him over. "Bro. I'm so glad you're here."
Richard smirked, stepping into the room. "What, couldn't figure out how to kill the main character for maximum trauma?"
Jack shot him a deadpan look before slumping back into his chair. "No, smartass. I'm stuck on the storyline. I don't know what to put."
Richard folded his arms, considering. "Have you seen Band of Brothers?"
Jack frowned. "No? Why?"
Richard pulled out his phone and started typing. "It's a World War II miniseries. It follows the real-life experiences of the 101st Airborne, especially Major Winters." He glanced up. "It's famous. You've seriously never heard of it?"
Jack shrugged. "Bro, I was too busy playing Company of Heroes to watch war dramas."
Richard chuckled. "Fair." He tapped the whiteboard. "Let's do this—forget generic war heroes. Let's take inspiration from real people, fictionalize them, and make them feel alive."
Jack leaned forward. "Like who?"
Richard's eyes lit up. "Captain Speirs."
Jack frowned again. "Who?"
Richard smirked. "A real soldier. A legend. He was known for sprinting through enemy fire—without hesitation. Our players love storming objectives like bulls. Let's create a fictional counterpart based on him. Make him a sergeant at first, leading a squad of twelve, maybe fifteen men."
Jack scratched his chin. "Okay… and?"
Richard grabbed a marker and started writing. "First, training. But not the boring FPS tutorial crap where you just point and shoot. We're making it real—three hours, full immersion. The player gets ranked based on their performance. If they ace it? They start as a second lieutenant."
Jack sat up, intrigued. "That's actually sick. So if they suck, they start lower?"
Richard nodded. "Exactly. And the game adapts. They're not just going through missions—they're experiencing war. Real-time AI. No waiting for the player. The war keeps moving."
Jack's eyes widened. "Holy shit. So if the player takes too long, the battle progresses without them?"
Richard grinned. "Yup. They can be heroes, or they can be nobodies. It's up to them."
Jack shot up from his chair. "Bro. We have to make this happen."
Richard smirked. "We already are."
Jack cracked his knuckles, leaning back in his chair. The dim glow of their monitors cast long shadows on the basement walls, the only sound was the quiet hum of hard drives spinning. "Alright, let's break it down. What's our starting point?"
Richard exhaled, fingers tapping against his laptop. The weight of what they were building pressed down on him—exciting and overwhelming all at once. He pulled up their development files, the screen reflecting in his tired eyes. "We already have the core mechanics from multiplayer, but single-player needs to be something else entirely. We need immersion—AI-driven warzones, dynamic interactions, and, most importantly, a brutal learning curve."
Jack nodded, already grinning. "No hand-holding. If they screw up, they feel it."
"Exactly." Richard scrolled through his notes, each line filled with possibilities, half-coded mechanics, and the relentless ambition to push past what was expected. "First step: AI behaviors. Soldiers won't be bullet sponges. If they get shot, they react. Some will scream for medics, others go into shock. We script battlefield surgeons rushing in to stabilize critical injuries. If the player is an officer, they'll decide who gets treated first."
Jack let out a low whistle. "Moral dilemmas in the middle of combat? I like it."
Richard's fingers danced over the keyboard as he brought up the AI logic flow. "Next: battlefield AI. Squads operate independently. They take cover, retreat, regroup. Some soldiers panic under heavy fire. If morale drops too low, units might refuse to follow orders."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Wait, so players can actually lose their squad if they make bad calls?"
Richard smirked, already visualizing the gameplay scenarios. "Yep. If they push too hard, their men might break and flee. If they're too cautious, command might replace them."
Jack leaned forward, the gears in his head turning. "So, if they screw up, there's no redo button?"
"Nope."
Jack let out a low laugh. "Damn. That's gonna make people sweat."
Richard nodded, cracking his knuckles. "That's the point. War isn't a power fantasy—it's a nightmare."
Jack scratched his chin. "Alright, but what about NPC interactions? You mentioned AI-driven conversations."
Richard pulled up another set of files, labeled "Adaptive NPC Behaviors". "The AI will remember what you say and do. If you leave men behind, survivors might resent you. If you execute prisoners, the news spreads through the ranks. The player's reputation will shape how others react to them."
Jack's eyes widened. "Bro… this is next-level."
Richard grinned, rubbing his temples. "And we're just getting started."
Jack cracked his neck. "So what do we tackle first?"
Richard pulled up the asset list, scrolling through their work-in-progress files. "We refine our AI framework, then we script the training sequence. The player needs to earn their rank before they ever set foot on a battlefield."
Jack smirked, stretching his arms. "You know what this means, right?"
Richard sighed, already feeling the exhaustion creeping in. "No sleep."
Jack laughed, shaking his head. "Hell yeah."
The basement was alive with the rhythmic clatter of keyboards and the low hum of cooling fans. The air smelled faintly of burnt circuitry and stale coffee—remnants of their past all-nighters. Screens glowed in the dim room, casting ghostly reflections against the glass walls of their studio, ByteBull.
Richard's fingers flew across the keyboard, adjusting the AI's combat logic. Every tweak, every line of code, brought their game closer to reality.
Beside him, Jack hunched over his own screen, running bot behavior simulations. His expression was tight, focused—his usual joking demeanor pushed aside by pure concentration.
A burst of digital gunfire crackled from his speakers as a test scenario played out on-screen. Placeholders—gray, featureless models—moved stiffly across the battlefield, reacting to gunfire in a way that felt… wrong. Too robotic.
Jack groaned. "Nope. This still feels like a damn arcade game."
Richard didn't look up. "Yeah. They're not responding like actual soldiers." His fingers tapped a few keys, pulling up a behavior matrix on his second monitor. "First, we need a suppression mechanic."
Jack leaned in. "Explain."
Richard pointed at the variables. "Right now, they either shoot or die. That's not how people react to getting shot at. If bullets start flying, they should flinch, duck, crawl for cover. If they get separated from their squad, they should hesitate—maybe even panic."
Jack's eyes narrowed as he considered. "And if they see their best friend get shot in front of them?"
Richard adjusted a parameter. "They freeze. Maybe they scream. Maybe they shut down completely. Or maybe they go berserk and charge the enemy."
Jack let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's brutal."
Richard smirked. "War is."
Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. "Okay. Next—player interaction. How do we handle the dialogue system? We can't just have static, pre-set responses. It needs to feel organic."
Richard switched to another window, opening their node-based conversation editor. "Dynamic." He tapped the screen. "Every choice matters. If the player's an asshole, people remember. If they're honorable, they earn loyalty."
Jack frowned. "Yeah, but how do we make it feel real?"
Richard hesitated, then his lips curled into a grin. "We use voice recognition."
Jack blinked. "…What?"
Richard tapped the microphone icon on the editor. "Players don't just pick from dialogue choices. They speak their orders. The AI interprets tone, urgency, and context. If you yell 'Move!' in panic, your squad scrambles. If you say it calmly, they advance carefully."
Jack's jaw dropped slightly. "Bro… that's insane."
Richard grinned. "We're not making just another FPS, Jack. We're making the future of gaming."
Jack cracked his knuckles. "Then let's get to work."
--------
Richard stretched his arms, feeling the stiffness in his back from sitting too long. The glow of the monitors bathed the dimly lit basement studio in a cold, bluish hue, the only source of light apart from the faint purple strip LEDs running along the ceiling edges. Cables snaked across the floor, connecting high-end custom PCs, cooling fans humming softly as they worked overtime.
Jack slouched in his chair, rubbing his eyes as he leaned back. His fingers still rested on the keyboard, but his brain had checked out hours ago. He exhaled, staring at the screen in front of him, where the final mission of their campaign played out in a test run.
The last few days had been a blur—coding, writing, designing, fixing bugs, debating mechanics, and arguing over historical accuracy. Three days straight of relentless grinding, fueled by instant coffee, Jollibee takeout, and the occasional power nap on the worn-out couch in the corner.
Jack sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "Alright, bro. I think it's done." He tapped the screen, scrolling through the campaign's mission list. "Everything's in—D-Day, Operation Market Garden, Battle of the Bulge, Berlin. Dynamic AI, real-time war effects, voice-activated commands…" He let out a dry chuckle. "Damn. We really did it."
Richard leaned forward, staring at the screen like he was seeing it for the first time. A weight lifted off his shoulders, but another quickly replaced it. It's done… but it's only just beginning.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah… we did. So what's next?"
Jack shot him a tired grin. "Marketing, obviously."
Richard's fingers started flying across the keyboard. "We need to get the word out. Facebook pages, YouTube trailers, Twitter. We push this hard. We build hype."
Jack groaned. "Ugh. That means dealing with people."
Richard smirked. "Welcome to game development."
Jack sat up and cracked his neck. "Alright, alright. Let's make the trailer first. We show off the single-player campaign, the voice-command AI, the war timeline adapting to the player's choices."
Richard nodded. "Cinematic shots. We make it look like a war documentary. We tease the gore and realism without showing too much."
Jack pointed at him. "And music. We need a damn good soundtrack."
Richard glanced at the clock. 3:42 AM. He exhaled sharply and leaned back, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. But in his chest, a fire burned.