On April 9, the entire internet seemed to belong to Fireworks.
For a full day, the game dominated the trending pages on Official Blog, and one name kept appearing over and over again in thousands of posts, arguments, edits, clips, and emotional breakdowns: Claire Chen.
Players had split into two camps.
The first camp believed Claire Chen was dead. To them, the ending made that painfully obvious. The red umbrella drifting through the water, the soaked letter, the tragic mood hanging over the final scenes—it all pointed to the same conclusion. In their eyes, Claire had drowned, and the game had simply chosen to leave her death wrapped in poetry rather than spell it out directly.
The second camp refused to accept that ending. They clung to every hidden clue, every suspicious detail, every object left in the background. The photo booth stickers. Sophie Zhao's ticket. The scattered hints that suggested Claire might have escaped just like Lena Hart, slipping away under the noses of powerful people who wanted her silenced. According to them, Claire had boarded a boat, fled the town, and the letter had simply been intercepted before it reached its destination.
Both sides had evidence. Both sides sounded convincing. And because both sides argued with absolute confidence, the ordinary bystanders watching the debate had no idea which interpretation to believe.
The rational players kept posting that Claire Chen was obviously dead and begged everyone else to stop treating the game like a fairy tale. The emotional players fought back with even greater passion, insisting that anyone who declared Claire dead had no heart at all. The discussion escalated so quickly that by afternoon, it no longer looked like a normal gaming debate. It looked like a full-scale civil war.
Every blogger with even a little sense for traffic rushed in to farm attention. Game reviewers, streamers, culture accounts, amateur analysts, and random drama-chasers all jumped on the topic. Anything with the word Fireworks in it would instantly attract floods of comments.
#FireworksBecomesABreakoutHit #DidClaireChenSurvive #StoryIsKing #RejectSuperstition #MyHeartBelongsToClaireChen #EthanReedComeExplainYourself #ClaireLeftOnMyBoatTrustMe #EvenIfClaireDiedTheLegendLivesOn
By noon, the entire fanbase had reached a dangerous conclusion.
If Ethan Reed would not answer them online, then they would go find him offline.
Vivian Frost read through the latest posts on her phone, then glanced sideways at Ethan with open amusement. "Congratulations, Lead Planner Reed. The fans have now discovered the correct method for dealing with you."
Ethan looked up from his seat. "And what method is that?"
Vivian held up her phone. "They want to come in person."
He froze.
That was the real terror of Northstar Games fans. Online, no matter how loudly they screamed, Ethan could ignore it. He could close the app, turn off notifications, and pretend nothing was happening. But offline? Offline was different. Offline meant banners. Offline meant mobs. Offline meant passionate fans demanding answers face-to-face while recording the whole thing for the internet.
Suddenly, the man who had happily broken thousands of players emotionally with a horror game felt a chill crawl up his back.
He rubbed his nose, then leaned closer to Vivian and said in a low voice, "Let me borrow your computer."
Vivian raised an eyebrow. "Scared?"
"A little," Ethan admitted honestly. "These people are unreasonable. If the game is bad, they come after you. If the game is good, they come after you even harder."
Vivian stood up and gave him space, though not before shaking her head at him. Ethan sat down at the computer, logged into Official Blog, and began typing.
At noon, he finally posted under his personal account.
---
Northstar Games Ethan Reed:
Hello, everyone. I'm Ethan Reed.
I've seen all the recent discussions online.
And of course he had. How could he not? "Ethan Reed, say something!" had practically become a public movement. The topic had climbed into the top five trending tags, and people outside the gaming circle were starting to wonder whether some celebrity had caused a scandal. Instead, it was all because of one game designer who refused to answer a question players desperately wanted answered.
Ethan continued:
I've read both sides of the debate, and honestly, I think both sides make valid arguments. As the lead planner of Fireworks, that makes me very happy. It means the story reached you. It means you cared enough to argue.
But as the person who made the game, I also want to leave some space for your own judgment. Claire Chen's ending does not belong only to me. It belongs to everyone who played the story.
The game is complete. There will be no second version, no expansion, and no extra chapter that gives a final answer. Some clues in the game were placed deliberately. Some happened naturally during development. That means I can't offer a clean, official explanation—and maybe that's fitting. In real life, some truths disappear with the dead, or with those who vanish.
But if you keep someone in your heart long enough, eventually, there will be an echo.
---
The replies exploded almost instantly.
The first comment said, "He actually showed up!"
The second said, "He wrote so much and somehow answered nothing."
The third insisted that Ethan was clearly leaning toward Claire surviving.
Another comment shouted that the final sentence alone proved Ethan's real opinion. Someone else asked how he had come up with the song at the end. Another person declared Claire absolutely alive because nobody buys a boat ticket unless they plan to keep living. Someone else mocked the game for telling players to believe in science, only to turn around and dive straight into ghostly mysteries.
The numbers climbed so fast Vivian could barely keep up. Refresh. Dozens more comments. Refresh again. Hundreds.
She stared at the screen, then looked at Ethan with a complicated expression. Northstar Games' official account did not have this kind of pull. Not even close.
That meant something rather dangerous.
It meant that while everyone called Northstar Games Vivian Frost's company, Ethan Reed's personal influence was now strong enough to drag the audience wherever he wanted. If he ever left, a huge portion of Northstar's fanbase would probably leave with him.
The thought made her feel both impressed and mildly offended.
She folded her arms. "You've posted it already. Why are you still looking at me?"
Ethan leaned back in the chair. "Because that was just crowd control. Now we need to do real work."
Her expression sharpened immediately. "You mean 2077?"
He nodded.
That one word changed the air in the office.
At first, Ethan had never intended to release 2077 this year. He knew exactly what kind of disaster rushed ambition could create. Delay a masterpiece, and players would complain for a while. Release it too early, and they would remember the failure forever. As a developer, he understood that. As a player, he understood it even more.
He had always believed that 2077 should wait until it was truly ready.
But the situation had changed.
Daniel's team was moving faster and faster.
Because Ethan had already handed over detailed design direction for the game—story structure, gameplay systems, visual direction, city atmosphere, and key thematic pillars—the team had not needed to fumble blindly toward a solution. They knew what they were building. In the beginning, progress had been slow. The technology was immature. The team lacked experience. Every system took longer than expected.
Then money started solving problems.
A lot of money.
Northstar had spent heavily on research, tools, training, and trial-and-error. Daniel's core developers, many of them once just talented new graduates, had grown into hardened professionals through brutal practice and relentless iteration. Mistakes were tolerated as long as lessons were learned fast. Over time, the team became sharper, more efficient, and frighteningly capable.
By January, February, and March, development speed had surged. 2077 was already halfway finished.
That changed everything.
This year, Northstar Games had already launched several titles in the first half. Some were niche, some were stylish, some were critically strong, and Fireworks had become a cultural hit. That meant the company no longer needed another mid-size release to stay visible.
It needed one thing.
One massive strike.
One game strong enough to crush the entire industry conversation.
Northstar Games needed 2077.
At two in the afternoon, the company's executives and team leaders packed into the seventh-floor conference room. There were so many people present that some had to stand along the walls. The room buzzed with quiet tension until Ethan stepped beside the projection screen.
Vivian sat at the main seat, arms crossed, saying nothing. But everyone could see the fire in her eyes.
Ethan spoke without preamble.
"In the first half of the year, Northstar Games has already delivered enough. From this point on, we are not dividing our focus anymore." He tapped the screen, and a single title appeared.
2077
The room went still.
Daniel straightened in his seat, fists clenched. Ryan Cole and Evan Cross both sat up immediately. They had expected Ethan to assign a few more projects as usual, maybe spread out the workload, maybe set up another pipeline.
Instead, he said, "From today forward, the company has only one target. We finish 2077."
Then he turned to Daniel. "Tell everyone what the project needs."
Daniel stood up at once. "We don't have a major technical wall right now. The biggest problem is workload. We need more hands for art, programming, implementation, support, and production coordination. If we can expand the team and outsource some support tasks, then I'm confident we can finish this year."
Ethan asked, "How many?"
Daniel didn't hesitate. "One hundred more."
The room stirred.
Everyone understood what that meant. They all looked toward Vivian. She did not object. She did not even blink.
That was enough.
Ethan nodded once and delivered the order.
"Then starting today, all available departments will support 2077. Maintenance teams for our live titles will keep only the minimum number needed to keep things running. Everyone else moves."
A wave of tension swept through the room.
The original 2077 team had roughly one hundred people.
That was no longer enough.
So Ethan made his decision.
If one hundred people weren't enough, then Northstar Games would send three hundred.
"Starting now," he continued, "every experienced member of Daniel's team will each take two or three people and get them integrated within two days. I don't care how hard the transition is. I want this company moving as one machine by the end of the week."
Then he leaned forward, voice calm but heavy.
"In one month, I want results."
The reply from the room came back in a single thunderous chorus.
"Yes!"
From that moment on, Northstar Games transformed.
That afternoon, the entire company sprang into motion. Staff rushed through the building carrying equipment, files, devices, and storage boxes. Workstations were reassigned. Floors were reorganized. Project boards were wiped and replaced. From outside the technology building, if someone looked carefully at the lit-up windows, they could actually see figures moving nonstop across the upper floors like a swarm responding to an emergency signal.
April passed.
Fireworks crossed astonishing sales numbers. Pokémon 2 opened strong. Northstar Games was still winning.
And then, suddenly, the company fell silent.
No major updates. No noisy announcements. No random jokes from the official account. No surprise teasers. No fresh releases. June came and went. July passed. August followed.
Players across the country grew restless.
What was Northstar doing?
This was not like them. Northstar Games had built its name by moving fast, by never letting the market breathe, by always having another surprise waiting behind the curtain. But now there was only silence. So complete, so deliberate, that it began to feel suspicious.
Was something wrong?
Had development collapsed?
Had the company run into trouble?
No one knew.
And then, in September—
Northstar Games returned.
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