Ethan had a specific memory in mind: the urban flood.
A wave of young people, once relocated to the countryside, were now returning en masse to the cities. The urban centers were overcrowded, job demand was skyrocketing—and so was the hunger for mental stimulation.
If he could tap into that need, there was real money to be made.
But unfortunately, it wouldn't solve his immediate problem.
He could build games—but what about a platform?
Games needed consoles. And consoles needed TVs.
That was already the most affordable option—but even so, most families still couldn't afford a television, let alone a game system.
Arcade cabinets? That'd require a serious investment upfront.
For now, he was stuck.
He tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. At the crack of dawn, he slipped out of the dorm and headed straight for the university's computer lab.
Today, his plan was to build out several of the major levels for the prototype. And while doing so, he'd brainstorm a proper business path for the future of video games in the UK.
When he reached the lab, the staff at the entrance barely glanced at him before waving him through.
He'd already been granted long-term access by a professor—no point hassling someone with official clearance.
Of course, Ethan knew how to grease the wheels. He'd snagged a few extra cigarettes from his roommate and handed them over to the lab assistant yesterday, all while respectfully calling the man "Professor"—even though the guy was really just a glorified janitor.
Didn't matter. Titles were flexible, and Ethan understood the power of small courtesies.
That morning, the lab assistant even promised to pass word along to the others on shift—to let Ethan in without question from now on.
After offering his thanks, Ethan changed into static-free shoes, pulled on the mandatory anti-static cap, and stepped into the lab.
This time, he didn't hesitate—he headed straight for the best machine in the room.
But to his surprise, two students were passed out cold at the desk.
One was hunched over the monitor, snoozing against the keyboard. The other was sprawled out on the floor, snoring peacefully.
The lab's soft flooring made it oddly comfortable, even for sleep. And from the looks of it, they'd been there all night.
Ethan blinked, confused, then noticed that the computer hadn't been turned off. His code was still running on the screen—the first level of "Squirrel Showdown."
He couldn't help but chuckle. They were really committed.
Rather than wake them, he walked over to the next-best terminal, booted it up, and inserted his floppy disk.
A few minutes later, the sharp, rhythmic clack of keys echoed through the lab.
He was off.
The first-gen Squirrel Showdown had eleven levels in total. A full run would take maybe a couple of hours. Speedrunners could finish in thirty minutes, tops.
The real joy of the game wasn't in beating it—it was in playing with friends.
In fact, it was arguably the first true "friendship-ruining" co-op game.
The developers had deliberately coded in traps and hazards you could spring on your teammates. Some might call it sadistic. Ethan just called it fun.
He'd wrecked plenty of childhood friendships with this game. But he'd also learned how to lead his teammates to victory without griefing them too hard.
"Oi, wake up—he's back!"
Ethan was mid-session when the student slumped over the desk stirred and sat up groggily. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, then snapped to attention when he spotted Ethan working away at another terminal.
He scrambled to wake his friend, nudging him urgently.
They hadn't stayed because the game was just that captivating—though it was pretty addictive, even in its simple first-level form. It was more the professor's words that kept them glued to the lab.
Yesterday, just before office hours ended, the professor had learned about Ethan.
He'd rushed to the admin office, only to find it closed for the day. And without a mobile phone, locating someone after hours wasn't exactly easy.
So he'd left a message: "That student will definitely come back. Stay and watch for him."
The professor suspected the game he'd seen was just the beginning. And someone who could pull that off wouldn't stop at a single level.
So he'd asked a few students to wait, in case Ethan returned that very evening.
But Ethan hadn't. He'd spent the night wrestling with money problems instead.
Still, the students didn't want to waste the opportunity—or the fun. So they just… camped out.
By midnight, they'd already explored every pixel of the map. Then they started racing each other, trying to beat the level in the shortest time.
Eventually, they'd collapsed where they sat.
Now, finally, Ethan had returned.
"I'll go get the professor! You keep an eye on him!" the student from the floor bolted for the door. The other stayed behind, inching closer to Ethan, watching him type with awe.
To his untrained eyes, it looked like magic.
He recognized a few familiar assembly language commands—jump, move—but the rest was a blur.
Ethan's fingers flew across the keys like they were dancing.
To him, this was nothing special.
Before founding his own company in the future, he'd interned at both domestic and international tech giants. He'd written everything from front-end UI to back-end architecture.
Compared to the insane development cycles of modern software, this was child's play.
Back then, a game like this might take hundreds of people months to build.
Now?
He could bang out the entire structure in a matter of days.
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