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In a waterfront villa in the Coastal Development Zone, Paul Gutierrez lounged on his Italian leather sofa, phone pressed to his ear.
"Mike, is that guy willing to sell? Three million isn't exactly chump change," Paul said, scrolling through his Fast and Furious garage with his other hand. He'd blown nearly two million trying to win Dominic's Charger through the lottery system, only to watch it go to someone else at the last second.
Paul was nothing if not persistent when it came to getting what he wanted in games. Money had never been an object—not since the government decided to develop the coastal region around his family's previously worthless salt marsh land. What had been barren, alkaline soil that could barely grow weeds suddenly became prime real estate overnight.
His family went from farmers to millionaires without lifting a finger. Paul had been smart enough to buy up shops and apartments during the initial development boom. Now he collected hundreds of thousands in rent daily while playing video games in his underwear. Life was good.
"Paul, I worked my ass off to convince him," Mike replied through the phone. "He wanted five million straight up. I talked him down to four, but that's his final offer. Won't budge."
Paul considered for a moment. Four million for a virtual car was insane by any rational measure. But rationality had never been his strong suit.
"Fine. Four million it is."
The next day, Paul finally had his Dodge Charger. Did he love Fast and Furious? Sure. Did he need this specific car? Not really. But there were only five in all of North America, and being Shadow Guild's leader meant maintaining a certain image. When you rolled up to a race, people needed to know you meant business.
Meanwhile, at Stormwind Studios, Alex Morrison had just made an announcement that sent shockwaves through the gaming industry.
"Effective immediately, all salaries increase by 50%," he told the assembled staff. "Additionally, everyone gets a $100,000 cash bonus. The Fast and Furious team gets between $300,000 and $800,000 based on their contribution. Year-end bonuses will be at least ten months' salary."
The room erupted. People were hugging, crying, some literally fell to their knees in mock worship.
"Did he just say eight hundred thousand?" someone whispered.
"That's more than my mortgage!"
"I can finally buy my mom that surgery!"
The Avatar team felt a twinge of jealousy watching the Fast and Furious developers celebrate their massive bonuses, but it quickly transformed into motivation. Their project was next. If they could match that success...
Tom Liu wasted no time posting on social media. He screenshot his bonus notification—$400,000—and tagged his former colleagues who'd jumped ship for "better opportunities."
"Regret leaving yet? 😎 #StormwindFamily #BestBossEver"
The post went viral within the industry. Suddenly, every game developer in the country was questioning their life choices.
"Our company gave us pizza parties as a bonus," one developer commented bitterly.
"You guys got pizza? We got branded keychains."
"My annual bonus was a $50 Amazon gift card. I'm updating my resume right now."
Major studios scrambled to contain the damage. HR departments held emergency meetings. Executives who'd been planning yacht purchases suddenly found themselves authorizing retention bonuses.
"We need to increase our benefits package," panicked managers told their boards. "We're hemorrhaging talent to Stormwind."
The ripple effects were immediate. Salaries across the gaming industry started climbing as companies desperately tried to keep their best people from jumping ship. Alex Morrison had inadvertently triggered an industry-wide wage increase.
Online, the gaming community responded with typical internet weirdness. A thread titled "Mr. Morrison is the Whitest" went viral, playing on slang where "black-hearted" meant greedy and "white" meant generous.
"Not all bosses are vampires! Mr. Morrison proves capitalism can have a heart!"
"Imagine having a boss who shares success instead of hoarding it."
"My CEO just bought his third yacht while laying off 200 people. Meanwhile, Morrison's out here changing lives."
But the internet being the internet, things quickly spiraled into absurdity. Someone posted: "I shared Alex Morrison's photo and got a raise the same day! Coincidence? I think not!"
"Bro, same! Posted his pic and won three legendaries in a row!"
"My girlfriend came back after I made him my profile picture!"
"My cancer went into remission! Thank you, Gaming Jesus!"
"I was bald, but after praying to Morrison's photo, I grew a full head of hair overnight!"
Within hours, "Trust Alex Morrison and Gain Eternal Life" was trending worldwide. What started as a joke morphed into a bizarre quasi-religious movement.
In a dorm room in Texas, a desperate college student printed out Alex's photo from a Forbes article, framed it, and placed it on his desk.
"Gaming God Morrison," he prayed, lighting a scented candle, "please let me pass my algorithms final. I'll buy all the Stormwind games, I swear."
He bowed three times, then added a Monster Energy drink and a bag of Doritos as offerings.
Across the country, a young woman named Mia held Alex's photo against her chest in front of her bathroom mirror.
"Please let me get that promotion," she whispered. "And maybe help me fill out this dress a little better? Just saying, miracles come in all sizes..."
In a Brooklyn apartment, a balding accountant taped Alex's photo to his computer monitor.
"Lord of Lambo, grant me luck in the Charger lottery. I've already spent eight grand. My wife doesn't know. Please don't let this divorce me."
The phenomenon grew increasingly bizarre. Someone claimed their grandfather rose from his deathbed after they showed him Alex's picture. Another swore their dog started speaking English after they set Alex's photo as their phone wallpaper. A peculiar sect formed in San Francisco, holding weekly meetings where they discussed Morrison's game design philosophy as if it were sacred scripture.
"In the beginning, there was Avatar," their leader intoned solemnly. "And Morrison saw that it was good. But he knew there could be more. Thus, he spoke Fast and Furious into existence, and lo, the gaming world was forever changed."
Back at Stormwind Studios, Alex couldn't stop sneezing.
"You okay, boss?" Sophie asked, concerned. "That's like your twentieth sneeze today."
"I don't know," Alex rubbed his nose, which had turned red from all the sneezing. "My ears are burning too. Maybe I'm getting sick?"
"Want me to call a doctor?"
"Nah, it's probably nothing. Let's focus on the Tokyo expansion—ACHOO!"
He sneezed so forcefully that papers scattered across his desk like autumn leaves.
"Okay, that's it," Sophie said firmly. "I'm calling Dr. Martinez."
"No, really, I'm—ACHOO! ACHOO! ACHOO!"
Three rapid-fire sneezes sent his keyboard flying. His ears felt like they were on fire.
"Maybe you're allergic to something?" Nathan suggested, backing away slightly. "New cologne? Different laundry detergent?"
"Or maybe," Tom said with a grin, pulling up his phone, "it's because half the internet is currently worshipping you as a deity. Look at this—someone built a shrine to you in Times Square."
He showed them a photo of a street performer who'd set up an elaborate display featuring Alex's photo surrounded by gaming peripherals, candles, and what appeared to be offerings of energy drinks and pizza slices.
"Oh my god," Alex groaned. "This can't be real."
"It gets better. There's a Change.org petition to officially recognize 'Morrisonism' as a religion. It has 80,000 signatures."
"Stop. Please stop."
"Someone's selling 'Blessed Morrison Water' on eBay. They claim you touched the bottle. Current bid is $450."
"I want to die."
"A fitness influencer says doing squats while looking at your photo gave her the perfect butt. She's starting a whole workout program called 'Morrison's Glutes.'"
"MAKE IT STOP!"
Miles away, in a dimly lit VIP booth at Eclipse nightclub, Brandon Sterling entertained a balding government official. Scantily clad hostesses kept their glasses full while bass-heavy music thumped through the walls. The official, Assistant Deputy Director Harold Walsh from the Digital Entertainment Oversight Committee, was already three sheets to the wind.
"Mr. Sterling, this whiskey is exceptional," Walsh slurred, his arm draped around a hostess who looked young enough to be his daughter and uncomfortable enough to be anywhere else.
"1947 Macallan," Brandon smiled. "Forty grand a bottle. Nothing but the best for our friends in government."
"You're too kind," the man grinned, taking another sip. "Speaking of friends helping friends... there's talk of new gaming industry regulations coming down the pipeline. Stricter content guidelines, licensing requirements, maybe even playtime restrictions."
Brandon leaned forward, interested. This was exactly why he maintained these relationships. "Oh?"
"Could be... selectively enforced, you understand. Some studios might find themselves under more scrutiny than others." Walsh's smile was oily. "That young Morrison boy has been making quite a splash. Maybe too much of a splash, if you catch my meaning."
"I might be able to help guide those regulations," Brandon said carefully. "Ensure they target actual problems in the industry."
"Exactly! Public safety, protecting the children, all that good stuff." Walsh raised his glass. "To responsible gaming!"
They clinked glasses while the hostesses giggled obligingly. Brandon's mind was already racing. Regulatory pressure could be exactly what he needed to slow Stormwind's momentum.
"Tell me more about these regulations," Brandon said, refilling Walsh's glass with practiced ease. "I want to make sure Titan Games is fully compliant, of course."
"Of course! Good corporate citizen, that's you!" Walsh was getting sloppier by the minute. "The key is the approval process. Every game needs government certification. Could take weeks... or months... depending on who you know."
"And the criteria for approval?"
"Oh, very subjective. Very... flexible." Walsh winked clumsily. "Some content might be deemed 'harmful to social values' or 'excessively violent.' Racing games that glorify illegal street racing, for instance. Terrible influence on the youth."
Brandon smiled. Fast and Furious was built entirely around illegal street racing. "That does sound concerning."
"Very concerning! But don't worry, established companies with good track records—like Titan—shouldn't have any problems. It's these upstart studios we need to watch. They don't understand responsibility."
"I couldn't agree more," Brandon said smoothly, already composing the anonymous tip he'd send about Stormwind's "dangerous" content.
Meanwhile, the "Trust Alex Morrison" meme had evolved beyond anyone's control. Photoshopped images showed Alex's face on religious paintings. Someone created a cryptocurrency called MorrisonCoin that briefly spiked 3000% before crashing spectacularly. A Florida man legally changed his name to Alex Morrison Jr. and claimed he could now predict lottery numbers.
"This is getting weird," Alex said, scrolling through the madness on his phone. "Someone built a shrine to me in Minecraft. It's sixty blocks tall and shoots fireworks every hour."
"Could be worse," Nathan pointed out. "At least they're not camping outside your house."
Sophie cleared her throat. "Actually, about that... Security just called. There's a group outside with signs that say 'Blessed Be The Game Developer.'"
Alex groaned and buried his face in his hands. "What have I done?"
"Created a cult following?" Tom suggested helpfully. "Hey, at least they're peaceful. The Titanfall fans literally rioted."
"Not helping!"
His phone rang. Victoria's name appeared on the screen.
"Hey bro," his sister's voice was trembling with suppressed laughter. "Want to explain why Mom just found a candle with your face on it at the grocery store? They're selling for $19.99 in the 'Spiritual Wellness' section."
"Kill me now."
"Oh, it gets better. Dad's investment club is using your photo as their official good luck charm. They've made 30% returns this month and now they're convinced you're their financial guardian angel."
"Victoria, please—"
"The neighbors asked if you could bless their new car. Mrs. Patterson wants you to touch her lottery tickets. The mailman left offerings of stamps at our door."
Alex hung up and turned off his phone. His ears were still burning, and the sneezing hadn't stopped. Somewhere out there, thousands of people were praying to his picture, making wishes, creating increasingly elaborate rituals.
"You know what?" he said finally. "Let's just focus on work. What's the status on the Tokyo expansion?"
"Character designs are finalized," Emily reported, clearly trying not to laugh. "Han's sister is testing really well with focus groups. Players love the idea of a female protagonist with a different driving style."
"Good. Great. Normal game development stuff. No cults, no shrines, no—ACHOO!"
This sneeze was so powerful it knocked him backwards in his chair.
"That's it," Sophie declared. "I'm calling security to disperse the crowd outside, calling the doctor, and maybe calling a priest."
"A priest?"
"Well, you are apparently divine now. Might as well make it official."
As Alex Morrison sat in his office, sneezing uncontrollably while people literally worshipped his image across the globe, he couldn't help but think that success came with some very strange side effects.
But hey, at least the company was doing well. Even if he had accidentally started a religion in the process.
Plz THROW POWER STONES.