At Aether Corp, Marcus — CEO — paced and smiled. In the executive suite, the breach looked like a win. The engineers showed him logs of the extraction. "Dark delivered," they said. Marcus leaned back, satisfied. The investment had paid off.
"You backed the right shadow," one executive said. "If we can adapt their systems, we'll eat Ground Zero's lunch."
They planned how to merge what they'd taken with Aether's refined shooting mechanics and matchmaking polish. They knew the pitfalls: a straight clone would read as copying and could spark lawsuits or a public backlash. But their plan accounted for that. They'd weave Ground Zero's raw data into Aether's engine, rework the systems, and release it as their own. If anyone asked, they'd claim prior work and even plant doubt that Leo had stolen from them.
"We'll shape the narrative," Marcus said. "Say we were already building the same concept and that Leo ripped us. Public will pick a side fast — and we'll be ready with 'evidence'."
Their plan was solid, because even though Leo took the lead in the Battle Royale genre, gaining resources and experience in the game was not something he could easily match against a big company in a short time.
So, if they managed to execute their plan, Leo could be in some trouble—but there was a variable. If it were a normal player or a normal company, their plan would likely succeed. However, the existence of Leo himself was a wildcard.
They still didn't know Leo had used their tunnel to pull a file of his own. They were celebrating a victory that wasn't as clean as they thought.
…..
Two days later the headlines broke:
"Aether Corp Accuses Ground Zero of Code Theft."
"Anonymous Sources Claim Leo's AI Uses Stolen Neural Tech."
"Ground Zero Too Real? Players Report Emotional Reactions Beyond VR Limits."
Tina slammed a tablet on the table. "They're flipping the story on us!"
Melina scanned the articles. "They're planting false evidence. The phrasing matches what they stole during the breach."
Leo didn't look angry — just calculating.
"Then we don't defend with words."
He turned to the main screen and typed a single command.
[Deploy Patch v2.0 — Operation: Desert Storm]
Tina grinned. "Finally."
Leo nodded. "Aether's trying to distract players with controversy. Let's drown them in awe instead."
He explained that if he exposed Aether's theft immediately, the headlines and player attention would shift into a controversy tug-of-war. Players would fixate on the drama.
Aether would use that distraction to scramble, repackage the stolen assets, and possibly even destroy what they took — then rebuild it into something that looked legitimate.
Instead, Leo would do the opposite: give players something they couldn't ignore — a major update that showcased features only Ground Zero could deliver, pushed live before Aether could refine or rebrand the stolen files.
That would do two things: lock in player goodwill and render the stolen material less valuable. Once the patch was live and players were hooked, Leo would release the evidence he'd quietly collected and show exactly how Aether and Dark had broken in. By then, the company would be exposed with less room to spin.
….
Within minutes of the headlines, social media went insane.
On game forums — threads stacked by the thousands.
"Did Leo really steal tech from Aether?"
"Ground Zero was too advanced, I knew something was off."
"I don't care who stole from who, the game is insane."
Content creators started reaction videos.
Clip channels ran side-by-side comparisons of leaked code segments.
Tech influencers speculated in livestreams.
Leo's silence made it worse.
People spammed the Peak Art official accounts.
"Say something."
"Is this true?"
"Why are you quiet?"
A few loyal fans defended him — but they were drowned out by the noise.
The industry veterans — mainstream audience — leaned toward Aether.
Aether had years of brand power.
Leo was still "the new guy" no matter how many hits he'd built.
Ground Zero was his sixth big release, yes —
but his presence and influence in the core industry was still small.
Most players still saw him as:
the genius newcomer
not the institution.
And the public always defaulted to the institution.
…
Four hours later — Aether made their move.
They dropped their own version of a VR shooter in the market.
The name was different — the maps were rearranged — the UI was re-skinned —
but people could see it:
it was Ground Zero at its bones.
Only… smoother.
Their bullet prediction was slightly more consistent.
Their recoil curve was a bit softer.
Their hit registration felt cleaner for casual users.
It wasn't a better game
but it was more "friendly" to the average player.
And Aether did not hesitate
they posted comparison charts of their "internal prototype" and showed "timestamps" claiming they had developed similar tech before Leo.
Those charts used the same stolen file headers — repackaged — with Aether labels.
To the general public
it looked like proof.
Suddenly the reaction shifted again.
"So Leo copied them?"
"Aether had this engine years ago."
"This looks legit."
People didn't know internal architectures.
They didn't know how easily someone could fake a file trail.
They only saw screenshots and "evidence" — so they believed it.
The player base split in half.
Ground Zero loyalists — the diehards — defended Leo.
But the larger casual crowd…
…they leaned toward Aether.
Because to them, Aether wasn't some new threat.
Aether was the brand they grew up seeing in splash screens before AAA shooters.
Leo looked like the rogue outlier now —
a possible thief.
Comment sections shifted:
"Leo should show his proof."
"If he's innocent why is he quiet?"
"Aether wouldn't risk this kind of claim unless they knew."
The pressure got heavier by the hour.
Melina refreshed feeds — jaw tight.
Tina watched trending tags spike.
Leo didn't react.
Not even once.
Although he was slightly surprised at how quickly Aether Corp had acted, it wasn't entirely unexpected—after all, they were a well-established company.
Still, it didn't matter to him; whether they moved faster or slower, the outcome would be the same.
He stayed focused on the patch build window in front of him.
The noise outside was massive.
The doubts were real.
The public was now divided — painfully split.
But Leo's silence wasn't panic.
He was waiting for the exact moment — the moment where shock value would do more damage than explanation.
He kept his eyes on the progress bar.
Patch v2.0 — Operation: Desert Storm.
Compiled: 72% … 73% … 74% …
He spoke softly — not to justify himself — but to confirm his own timing.
"Let them get louder," he said.
Tina glanced at him. "Because when we hit back—"
Leo nodded once.
"—it needs to feel like reality itself flipped."