Chapter 4: Betrayal Goes Viral

A week later, while I was buying instant noodles at the grocery store, I got a call from an investor.

I was standing in the fluorescent-lit aisle, comparing the sodium content on different ramen brands, when my phone buzzed. The timing felt like a sign.

He said he was interested in our project and wanted to meet.

My pulse quickened as he rattled off the details. Hope flickered, stubborn and bright.

At the agreed location, while he went to the restroom, I pulled out my phone to search the name on his business card.

The café was all reclaimed wood and Edison bulbs, the kind of place where every table had a power outlet. I Googled him as soon as he disappeared around the corner.

Jupiter Ventures, Caleb Jordan.

The name was new, but the card was heavy, embossed in gold. I wondered if that meant anything anymore.

The company had just been registered.

No history, no press releases—just a website with a stock photo of a rocket and a single contact form. My suspicion spiked.

As for him, all I could find online was that he’d worked at an investment bank in New York.

A LinkedIn profile with a single smiling headshot, a few vague endorsements. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

"Interested in me?"

He reappeared so quietly I almost dropped my phone. His smile was wide, a little too charming.

Caleb suddenly appeared behind me, glancing at my phone.

He leaned over my shoulder, catching my screen before I could lock it. He smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.

I smiled, turned off the screen, and put my phone away. "Let’s get down to business."

I forced a casual grin, slipping my phone into my pocket. The game was on now—him sizing me up, me doing the same.

Even though I knew little about him or his company, I couldn’t afford to let any opportunity slip away.

Desperation makes you brave. I decided to trust my gut—and my ability to read people. Sometimes, that’s all you have.

To my surprise, five days later, the first round of funding arrived in our company account.

I almost didn’t believe it when the bank app buzzed. I stared at the numbers for a full minute before running to tell the team.

Half a million dollars...

It felt like winning the lottery. We screamed, we hugged, we ordered pizza for the whole office. For the first time in months, it felt like maybe things would work out.

That same day, our project "Stellar Abyss" officially entered its critical phase.

We hung up a fresh whiteboard and scribbled new deadlines. There was a fresh sense of purpose in the air—nerves, but excitement too.

For the next year, even at three in the morning, our office lights stayed on.

We joked about setting up cots. Takeout containers piled up in the trash, and someone kept a running tally of how many Red Bulls we’d consumed.

In the final sprint, the core R&D team set up sleeping bags at their desks, and some people didn’t go home for a whole month.

We became a family of sorts—sweatpants, inside jokes, shared misery. Someone’s dog became our unofficial mascot, snoozing under the conference table.

The head of testing even called her ex-husband—divorced for two years—for help.

She bribed him with leftover pizza and a promise to name a bug after him. He showed up at midnight, grumbling but ready to work. That’s how desperate we all were.

I moved between departments every day, sometimes logging over thirty thousand steps.

My Fitbit buzzed so often it started to feel like a second pulse. I learned everyone’s coffee order and carried aspirin in my purse for emergencies.

The day we finally solved two technical roadblocks, I made everyone leave work early.

I ordered tacos for the team, forced everyone out the door by 7 PM, and played the theme song from Rocky on the office speakers. We’d earned a break.

Sitting alone in the office, I watched the lights in each department go out one by one until the building was completely dark.

The silence was overwhelming, but it was the good kind—the kind that comes after you’ve done something huge. I stared out the window, watching the city twinkle, and let myself feel proud.

Only then did I let the tears fall.

The relief was so intense it hurt. I cried quietly, wiping my cheeks with my sleeve, letting the weight of the last year wash away.

Three months later, "Stellar Abyss"—the first domestic sci-fi RPG—launched to huge attention, topping the download charts on day one.

Launch day was a blur—press calls, social media buzz, messages from old friends. Our logo flashed on Times Square billboards, and for a moment, it felt like anything was possible.

But then came a wave of criticism.

The good vibes lasted less than a week. The internet turned ugly fast, and the haters came out swinging.

"I heard the creator of 'Stellar Abyss' used to work at HorizonTech."

The accusations felt personal, like someone had been waiting for this chance. Screenshots and old photos circulated online, with my face circled in red.

"They poached a bunch of people from the 'Nebula Realms' team when they left—even the CEO’s assistant."

Suddenly, every career move I’d made was public fodder. People dug through LinkedIn, comparing timelines, drawing conclusions.

"No wonder 'Nebula Realms 2.0' has been so quiet, and the updates are clearly lagging."

Armchair analysts weighed in on forums, blaming our success for someone else’s struggles. The narrative spun out of control.

"Stabbing your old employer in the back—no professional ethics at all."

The phrase stung. I thought about all the hours, all the sacrifice, and wondered if it was worth it.

The online backlash grew, and some game streamers even claimed that "Stellar Abyss" encouraged cheating.

The accusations snowballed. Suddenly, we were trending for all the wrong reasons. My inbox filled with hate mail and memes.

"If anyone can clear this dungeon without cheats, I’ll livestream myself eating a sock!"

The dare went viral. Someone even tagged me on Twitter, daring me to respond. I blocked them and kept scrolling.

We immediately put out a statement.

Our PR team worked overtime, crafting careful responses and uploading proof that the game was fair. We tried to get ahead of the storm, but it was like yelling into a hurricane.

Colleagues posted evidence on their Instagram accounts, but their voices were drowned out by the flood of malicious comments.

The trolls didn’t care about facts. They came in waves, leaving nasty DMs and tanking our ratings.

I kept refreshing the trending topics—it was obvious someone was orchestrating all this.

It was too coordinated. Too many bots, too many new accounts repeating the same lies. My stomach churned with suspicion.

Within a week, "Stellar Abyss"’s rating dropped to 2.5, and partners started canceling contracts.

The calls started coming—first one, then another. Our partners backed out, citing "reputational risk." I felt the floor drop out from under me.

I called Caleb Jordan.

My fingers shook as I dialed. I didn’t care what time it was. I needed answers, and I needed them now.

"Help me find out who’s pulling strings behind the scenes."

I kept my voice steady, hoping he couldn’t hear the desperation. If anyone could dig up dirt, it was him.

He clearly wasn’t fully awake, his voice lazy. "Natalie, that’s not how you use your investors."

He chuckled, slow and amused, as if this was all a game. I didn’t have time for jokes.

Before he could finish, I hung up.

I wasn’t in the mood for banter. I needed action, not sass.

Half an hour later, Caleb sent me a message.

My phone buzzed. I opened the text with shaking hands.

[Aubrey Grant, your old rival.]

The name glared back at me, confirming what I’d feared all along. A chill ran through me. Aubrey Grant. Of course. My old rival was behind it all—and I’d just declared war.