Introduction

The memory was a ghost that never left my apartment.

It played on a loop: Sarah, glowing on screen, cheering fans, my game "Aetheria" about to launch.

"Five more minutes, baby," she' d whispered, "And the world will see what a genius you are. I' ll make sure of it."

I believed her. I poured everything into "Aetheria," my masterpiece. Sarah, the biggest streamer, was my partner, promising a massive launch.

But when her stream hit zero, not "Aetheria," but "Chrono Rift," a cheap clone, filled the screen.

Then her voice, slick and commercial, declared, "THIS is the game of the year. 'Chrono Rift' is here!"

The betrayal was immediate. She savaged my game: "A little birdie told me 'Aetheria' is a buggy, unplayable mess. Don' t waste your money. The developer is in way over his head."

The world broke.

Months later, surrounded by final notice bills, I heard her on the news. "Chrono Rift" sold ten million units. Mark, its developer, wrapped an arm around her, speaking of their "stable future."

I later learned of their affair, their secret deal. My ruin was their business expense.

Why? How could she? The woman I loved, my partner, had systematically destroyed me for profit.

Clicking off the TV, I saw an old hard drive labeled "Nexus," my abandoned first project. Plugging it in, I saw a strange line of code, a "developer' s blessing," reminding me of boundless creativity.

A jolt. I would rebuild. I started "Aetheria 2.0." Their castle of glass stood, but I was gathering stones.