The Day the Miracle Began
Five years in the making, and the game tanked the moment it launched. Not just any flop—it crashed and burned in the most spectacular, dogshit way imaginable. The related communities were all ablaze, and that wasn't enough; users were spreading the news to other game forums, banging their drums like it was a fucking parade.
With a development budget of 30 billion won alone, it had garnered massive hype from gamers domestic and abroad. But the reason it bombed wasn't finger-pointing or operational screw-ups. It was all because of one person: my utterly incompetent boss, the guy in charge of the whole project.
"Ha, fuck."
Under the cold winter sky, that one word I spat out with my cigarette smoke carried a world of meaning. After graduating college and landing a job at a company that could call me mid-level in the industry, this was my first game project. Hell, you could say I poured my youth into it. And now its rating had plummeted straight to the gutter the second it opened.
The office vibe was like a funeral home. Our boss had been raging since morning, so I'd ducked up to the rooftop to escape his glare.
"Deputy, what do we do now?"
Lee Seokjin, my junior dev sucking on a smoke beside me, asked. I flicked my ash to the ground and replied.
"What do you mean, what? Quit and jump ship somewhere else, or grit your teeth and cling to this shithole no matter what."
Truth be told, it was a disaster we'd half-seen coming. Midway through development, this parachute-in co-CEO and lead PD shows up, guts the story we'd been crafting for nearly three years on a whim, and doesn't stop there—he butchers the nurturing system that was tied to it.
Me and the dev team fought tooth and nail to preserve the game's soul against that lead PD's bullshit, but power wins out. We learned that the hard way. Some jumped ship; others bailed on the industry entirely. And soon enough, I'd be following in their footsteps.
"Deputy, got any companies in mind already?"
"Eh. Five years of experience under my belt—should be able to land anywhere, right? Worry about yourself first. You've only been here two years, Seokjin."
I pointed out his bleak future, and he gave a wry smile, nodding.
"Yeah, my nose is numb to it. Just paid off my student loans, too. Can't be thinking like that already."
"I've been marked from day one, so no choice for me. But you? Boss hasn't got a grudge against you. Don't get swept up in the mood and quit—stick it out."
I clapped his shoulder, stubbed out my cig in the ashtray, and said,
"Alright, I'm heading down first. Take your time."
"Yes, sir. See you inside, Deputy."
"Yeah."
I waved him off half-assed, steeled myself, and headed back to the office alone.
Clunk!
Stepping into the office hit me with a heavy silence. Like standing on a chilly guillotine blade. Normally, post-launch, we'd celebrate the first sales on the major markets. But with a massive whistleblower scandal exploding right at open, our department couldn't dare.
...Karma's a bitch, I guess.
The CEO himself ignored actual game dev for endless office politics. Muttering that in my head, I headed to my desk—when a female employee near the CEO's office called out cautiously.
"Um, Deputy Kim."
"Yes?"
"The CEO said to stop by his office when you got back."
"......"
Can't I skip? The words nearly escaped, but I had no choice anyway. Feeling like a cow marched to slaughter, I stood before his door, braced myself, and knocked lightly.
Knock knock!
"It's Deputy Kim, sir."
"Ah, come in."
I opened the door at his okay. There he was: Lee Hyuncheol, our co-CEO and lead PD on this 30-billion-won fiasco. Scrolling community sites furiously, he eyed a chair without looking up.
"Sit."
"Yes, sir."
I sat gingerly. He kept staring at his monitor.
"From your view, Deputy Kim, how do you see this mess playing out?"
"......"
Tough opener. I hesitated, lips twitching. He frowned slightly, adjusted his glasses.
"Speak freely. Just gauging staff opinions."
Prodded relentlessly, I answered reluctantly.
"It won't blow over easy. To users right now, our game's got a clear moral stain."
If it were just ops sloppiness or finger issues, we'd bow, promise fixes, snag a second chance. But this? Triggered by ex-staff or insiders spilling guts. Public outrage wouldn't settle quick. Stonewall like other games? With tens of billions in ads already spent, no launch hype means it sinks. Worst outcome—not just for our dev team, but investors who bet on the company's portfolio.
"...Hm, yeah, figured as much."
He feigned deep thought. Knowing this fucker caused it all made me want to unload a torrent of curses, but with no quit notice tomorrow, I kept it to fantasy.
"Let's schedule a live broadcast soon. Me apologizing on camera should keep things from worsening."
I blinked at his bold call—out of character.
"You sure that's wise, sir?"
He smirked.
"If my underlings do jack shit, the CEO's gotta step up to save the game, right?"
"......"
Barbs in his words—my question irked him. Keep talking, and shit splashes my way. I probed carefully.
"If that's all, sir, may I go?"
His face softened like nothing happened, eyes back to the monitor.
"Guess I held up a busy man too long. Back to work, Deputy Kim."
"Yes, thank you, sir."
I backed away from his desk, grabbed the handle gingerly like on entry, and escaped that suffocating space. Just as I did—
"Oh, one last thing. Any guesses on who posted the exposé? Among contacts or ex-staff?"
My heart dropped.
Casual toss from him, gut-punch for me. But panic looks suspicious, so I forced calm.
"...No, sir. No one comes to mind."
"Really?"
He dropped it. Uncomfortable, I bolted from the office.
That evening.
"I'm home."
Muttering the habit, I opened the door to my dim apartment and sighed involuntarily.
"Haa."
Five years since chasing game dev dreams to Seoul. Used to solo living by now, but that loneliness hitting during rough patches? Unbeatable.
Mom's kimchi jjigae sounds good.
Flipping on the living room light, I set the convenience store bag with my takeout on the table. Peeled the lid, nuked it, changed into pajamas in the bedroom during the wait.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Right on cue, I grabbed the steaming bowl, a cold beer from the fridge, and plopped at my PC desk.
"Let's see... any fun vids today?"
Post-work ritual: Fire up a fave YouTuber's vid or OTT flick, mutter to myself to fend off solitude, chow down late dinner. Every damn night.
Midway through a YouTube binge and my meal—familiar ad CM blared.
"Red Asterisk! Seven years strong, thanks to our teachers' love!"
Too slammed IRL for logins lately; quit cold eventually. Mobile subculture game.
"......"
I watched the 30-second spot rapt, start to finish. Appetite gone, I set down my chopsticks.
I wanted to make a game like that.
Every gamer has life games. Red Asterisk was mine—the one I stuck with over five years when others bored me in one or two.
How'd it come to this?
Sudden wave of regret. I dreamed of user-pleasing games like Red Asterisk. Ones satisfying creators and players alike. But five years poured in, ruined overnight.
In this hyper-online era, first impressions kill. Without a miracle, our game—crafted by the team—fades into mediocrity, unranked till shutdown.
The more I thought, the madder. Rage boiled.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! You fucking Lee Hyuncheol!"
I pummeled the yellow dinosaur plush from another game's offline event beside my desk.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Wanted to anon-post the dirt, quit like old colleagues. But no next gig lined up? Just hurts me. Bills, cards, loans next month—boss can suck, but I gotta stick.
Spent, I vented on the plush till calm, sat back down. Typed Red Asterisk into search.
Mobile originally, but PC client just dropped. Time to reinstall.
Last login two years back?
Two years in mobile? Worlds change. Competition? Inflation skyrockets. My mains? Probably obsolete now.
Charged steady till quit—stings, but spilled milk.
Pray inflation's mild.
~30 mins download. Clicked icon. Red logo flared: "Red Asterisk!"
Classic Japan weeb game trope: character voice intro. Lame now, but nostalgic—like home.
Yeah, this is it.
Clicks later, familiar lobby UI. There: my rep before quitting.
Tachibana Saori ( )
Student council prez: long black hair with faint purple sheen, ruby-red eyes.
"Long time no see, Sensei. Been busy?"
Sole character I maxed affinity before quitting. Modern terms: fave, waifu.
Still gorgeous.
Clicked her for next line—
Flash!
Monitor blazed blinding.
"Whoa?!"
Crash!
Eye-searing shock—toppled chair-backwards.
"My eyes! My eyes!"
Clutching, writhing on floor in agony. Then—footsteps? In my empty home.
Giggle.
What the—?
Ghostly. Endured pain, cracked eyes. Blurry silhouette.
"Sensei's still so scatterbrained."
Recognition hit. Impossible. Mouth agape.
"...What?"
My fave from the screen—flesh in reality. Tachibana Saori.