The glow from multiple screens bathed the room in an artificial blue hue. Richard Santamo sat hunched over the dual-monitor setup, a steaming cup of barako coffee clutched in his hand. The dark circles under his eyes told the story of a man who had been running on adrenaline and caffeine for far too long. Beside him, Jack lounged in his chair, his eyes darting across the screen as his fingers flicked through emails like a man possessed.
Jack let out a low whistle. "Bro… we got emails from EVERYONE. EA, Ubisoft, Activision, Sony, hell, even Nintendo. This is nuts."
Richard exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair, the worn-out leather creaking beneath him. "I knew we'd get attention, but this is insane."
The screen in front of them was a digital battlefield of notifications. On Twitter—scratch that, X—the hashtag #ByteBull was trending worldwide. Gamers, tech enthusiasts, and even mainstream media had latched onto their creation, World War II: Frontline, the first AI-driven FPS that didn't just react but thought like a real player.
Jack chuckled, scrolling through the rest. "Sony wants exclusivity. Activision wants a 'strategic partnership.' Nintendo…" He paused, then grinned. "Oh man, Nintendo just sent a cease and desist by accident, then retracted it five minutes later."
Richard smirked. "Classic."
His mother, Anita, poked her head into the basement. She looked between them and the mess of cables, keyboards, and empty coffee cups. "Aren't you two going to sleep?"
Jack turned. "Auntie, we're in the middle of history right now."
Anita crossed her arms. "History won't help when you pass out and die from exhaustion." She walked over and pulled the coffee mug from Richard's hand. "You're drinking too much of this. When was your last real meal?"
Richard glanced at Jack. Jack shrugged. "Uhh… does pizza count?"
Anita sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You two need real food. Estello had the cook make sinigang."
Richard groaned. "Ma, we're in the middle of something here."
"I don't care." She pointed toward the stairs. "Eat. Now."
Jack gave Richard a look. "Better listen, man. The real boss has spoken."
Richard sighed, pushing his chair back. "Fine. Five minutes."
-----
Estello sat at the long mahogany dining table, sipping a glass of salabat (ginger tea). Despite his age, there was a sharpness in his eyes, a quiet authority that demanded respect.
He set his glass down as Richard and Jack entered. "Ah, the young innovators grace us with their presence."
Jack grinned, sitting down across from him. "Grandpa, you keeping up with the chaos?"
Estello smirked. "Hard not to. The internet is loud, even for an old man like me."
Richard slumped into his seat. "It's getting out of control. They're coming for us."
Estello raised a brow. "And what's your plan?"
Richard scooped some rice onto his plate. "We're not selling."
Jack nodded. "Never. We built ByteBull to be independent."
Estello leaned forward. "That's admirable. But do you have the means to survive the storm?"
Richard hesitated. He knew what he was getting at. Money. Infrastructure. Protection from corporate buyouts and legal loopholes designed to crush small developers.
Estello tapped his fingers on the table. "A small boat doesn't fight a tsunami. It rides it. You must decide—are you riding the wave, or getting swallowed by it?"
Jack exhaled. "Damn, grandpa, that's deep."
Estello chuckled. "Experience, Jackie" He turned to Richard. "You need a plan. A real one."
Richard nodded slowly. "We need investors. But not ones that will gut us."
Estello's eyes twinkled. "No, you need a proper legal team, and I know just the best ones. I've been running our business for decades. I'll call them here." He took another sip of his salabat before continuing, "Also, if you keep hiding, the world might think you have something to hide."
Jack leaned in. "You got tech connections, Lolo?"
Estello simply smiled. "I have connections."
Richard swallowed a bite of sinigang, his mind already racing. Maybe, just maybe, they could survive this after all.
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Activision Blizzard Headquarters, USA
Mark Lanchester sat in the dim glow of his corner office, the neon skyline of Los Angeles sprawling behind him. The game demo looped on his massive OLED screen, playing the same 30-second clip over and over—an AI-controlled squad in World War II: Frontline executing strategies that no pre-programmed NPC could ever match. One enemy combatant flanked, another laid suppressive fire, while a third used the environment for cover dynamically. It was unnatural—almost too human.
Mark tapped his fingers against the cold glass of his whiskey tumbler. His executives were already on a conference call, their voices clipped and urgent.
COO: "This could disrupt our entire industry. We need to secure exclusive rights before anyone else does."
VP of Development: "Sir, our AI team says this isn't just machine learning… it's something else entirely."
Mark exhaled, setting his drink down. "Something else? Like what?"
A pause. Then, the VP hesitated, "They're calling it self-evolving cognition. It adapts in real time without needing cloud updates. We've never seen an AI behave like this."
Mark leaned forward. This was bigger than just a new game. It was a threat.
"Find out who owns this tech," he said, voice sharp. "Buy them. If they refuse, we outbid everyone else."
Silence. Then, the COO cleared his throat. "And if they still refuse?"
Mark's eyes darkened. "Then we make them an offer they can't refuse."
-----------
Electronic Arts (EA) Headquarters
In Redwood City, California, the EA boardroom was abuzz with hushed voices, the tension thick enough to slice with a blade. The CEO, Jonathan Wells, stared at the same game demo playing on a projector.
A tech director spoke first. "This AI doesn't just react, it thinks. It's like playing against an actual human opponent, except it learns your patterns."
Wells folded his arms. "How is this possible? We've been developing adaptive AI for years, and we're nowhere near this level."
Another exec chimed in, "It's not just their game. It's their engine, we think. If we acquire this technology, we control the future of gaming."
Wells didn't hesitate. "Send a priority email."
The room fell silent.
He continued, "Offer them $1 billion for exclusivity."
A murmur spread through the executives.
"Sir," the CFO interjected. "That's a massive—"
"Do it."
No one argued. If this AI was what they thought it was, then ByteBull wasn't just an indie studio. It was a gold mine.
----------
The PlayStation headquarters in Minato, Tokyo, was rarely in a state of emergency. But today was different.
A large monitor displayed a paused frame of World War II: Frontline. A soldier's face, rendered with breathtaking realism, turned to look at the camera as if aware it was being watched.
The room was silent.
Finally, one of the senior board members spoke. "This could redefine console gaming."
Another nodded. "We can't let Microsoft get to them first."
Hiroshi Tanaka, the head of PlayStation's R&D, tapped a pen against the table. "We need to know exactly who these developers are."
A younger exec hesitated. "We don't have their location yet, but our team is working on tracing their digital footprint."
Tanaka frowned. "Whoever they are, they've managed to stay under the radar."
The board members exchanged glances. For all of Sony's dominance in gaming, they had never seen a breakthrough like this come from an unknown entity.
Tanaka stood. "Find them. We'll make a deal."
------------
Ubisoft, France
Paris, 10:00 AM. The Ubisoft headquarters was supposed to be empty, but tonight, the boardroom lights were on, and a group of sleepless executives watched the same ByteBull demo that had the rest of the industry in chaos.
The silence was only broken by the lead AI developer, who finally muttered, "Our NPCs look like garbage compared to this."
The CEO, Jean-Luc Moreau, steepled his fingers. "How is it possible that a team we've never heard of is this far ahead of us?"
No one had an answer.
A frustrated marketing exec groaned. "If we don't integrate AI like this into our next Assassin's Creed, we're dead in the water."
Moreau exhaled through his nose. "Then we must license their technology."
His assistant, typing furiously on a laptop, hesitated. "Sir… we just checked. They haven't responded to any acquisition offers yet."
Moreau smirked. "Then we make them listen."
-----------
Back in Marawi, Philippines, Richard and Jack sat in stunned silence, the glow of their screens casting eerie shadows across their faces. Their inbox was a battlefield—offers, meeting requests, and aggressive buyout proposals flooded in like a tidal wave.
Richard's hands hovered over his keyboard. "Jack."
Jack didn't respond, just staring at the screen like he was seeing a ghost.
Richard swallowed. "Jack."
Jack finally blinked. "Bro… EA just offered us a billion dollars."
Silence.
Richard exhaled sharply. "Sony wants a meeting. Activision's VP is 'requesting a private discussion.' Ubisoft says they want to 'explore licensing.'"
Jack leaned back. "We're not ready for this."
Richard nodded. "Not even close."
Then, the door to the basement creaked open. Estello Purnas stepped inside, his face calm but his presence heavy.
"You boys look like you've seen a ghost."
Richard gestured at the screens. "More like a tsunami."
Estello studied the messages, his sharp eyes scanning each line with the precision of a man who had navigated more deals than they could imagine.
Then, he smiled.
"This," he said, tapping a finger against the monitor, "is what we call leverage."