Julian: ...I'm afraid I can't do it well.

Samuel: Don't be afraid. I'll lead your way.

Julian stared at the words until the pixels blurred. He could almost see Samuel saying it—the calm, steady authority that had once pulled him from the wreckage of his family life.

The walls Julian had spent months building began to leak. 

Julian: What are the specific steps?

Samuel didn't reply via text. Instead, a long-form email arrived in Julian's inbox. In an era of instant messaging, the formality of the email felt like an anchor. It was detailed and surgical, mapping the workflow, the research methodology, and the specific departments Julian would need to coordinate with.

Samuel instructed him to start wide—analyze the macro-economic climate—before narrowing down to the gaming industry's trends and finally focusing on the specific mechanics of Symbiosis.

Respect the trend, the email read. Never offer advice in a vacuum.

Samuel had also cleared Julian's access to the Apex Capital think tank. He had briefed the senior researchers to cooperate with Julian's requests.

This is the first project you are leading. Do it with your head held high. Julian, I look forward to your results.

Julian read that final line until he'd memorized the shape of the letters. It was a bridge across the cold distance they'd maintained since the New Year. Samuel was still his mentor, still his guide, even if the foyer in NYC remained a forbidden topic.

Julian closed his eyes, forced his pulse to level out, and typed a professional confirmation.

Julian: Hello, Samuel. Email received. I will have the initial draft to you by Thursday.

Consulting for a multi-billion-dollar firm wasn't a task for the faint of heart, but Julian was possessed by a new kind of hunger. He loved the creative side of the work—the feeling that he wasn't just processing data, but building something.

On Thursday, he sent the report. Samuel approved it with minimal edits.

Friday afternoon, Julian followed Samuel into the headquarters of the team behind Symbiosis. The game was a phenomenon, a "black hole" of revenue that had generated nearly 60 billion in its lifetime. But the engine was stalling. Players were leaving, and the community was a toxic sea of "anti-fans" and bad rhythm.

Julian wasn't the only one there. A rival consulting firm had also been brought in.

Luo Mingze, the CEO, looked haggard. "Since last year, Symbiosis has been drowning in public outcry. We've had internal debates, but there are too many voices. We need a professional verdict."

Julian stepped forward to present the Apex view. "The gaming industry has hit a plateau in gameplay mechanics. The current battlefield is content. Symbiosis has the art and the music, but the core issue lies in two areas: high-quality narrative and character depth. This is what drives the 'gacha' revenue."

He pointed to the data. "Our research shows that versions with strong narrative arcs and resonant character designs see a massive spike in revenue, even when player retention is dipping. Narrative is your moat. It's the only thing that separates you from the copycats."

Luo Mingze nodded, though he looked troubled. "We've tried to focus on story, but the results haven't been... ideal."

Julian kept his face a mask of professional neutrality, though he wanted to scream. That's because your last update featured a story that read like a first draft and characters with the personality of cardboard.

"Is it possible," Julian asked with a polite smile, "that the recent scripts simply didn't meet player expectations?"

The rival consultant let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. "Story is subjective. You can't quantify 'quality.' But we have a method that guarantees maximum, replicable revenue with minimal cost."

Luo Mingze looked toward him. "What method?"

"Games are commodities," the consultant said. "Commodities serve a target demographic. Symbiosis has a 7:3 male-to-female ratio. We know what men want. It's obvious."

Julian felt a cold prickle of dread.

"I'll be blunt," the man continued, grinning. "Black stockings, fan-service, and making the characters worship the player. Satisfy those three points, and they'll swipe their cards. Narrative and depth? Nice to have, sure, but ultimately irrelevant."

Julian's jaw tightened. "Then how is Symbiosis any different from a low-rent skin-game?"

The consultant shrugged. "The company needs to make money. I'm giving you the path of highest return."

"I disagree entirely," Julian said, his voice hard. "Symbiosis is a general-interest game, not a niche male-targeted service. If you pivot to 'edgy' content, you will bleed your core player base. Short-term revenue might spike, but you'll kill the brand. A smaller game can always strip more, go further. If you go down that road, you lose your competitive edge. You accelerate your own end."

The debate raged for an hour. Neither side budged. Luo Mingze didn't pick a side; he simply checked his watch and suggested they all head to dinner.

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Despite the heated argument in the boardroom, the rival consultant was perfectly friendly over drinks. He asked to add Julian on Whatsapp.

Julian accepted, curious. He checked the man's profile—wholesome landscape photos, professional milestones. He didn't look like a man obsessed with "meat-selling" games.

"Do you actually believe that?" Julian asked him privately. "That fan-service is the only answer?"

The man shook his head. "The data says a game's lifespan is finite. Symbiosis is in its late stage. Decline is inevitable. My job is to give them the method for profit maximization. Everything else? That's for them to worry about."

Profit maximization. Julian felt a begrudging respect. That was the ultimate version of separating the personal from the professional.

Julian stayed sober during the dinner, listening to Luo Mingze complain about the weight of leadership. Julian found it hard to empathize with a man who had made ten billion last year and was now "suffering" because he'd only made five. But Julian loved the game. He wanted it to survive.

After the meal, Luo Mingze caught Julian's eye, his gaze heavy with alcohol and emotion. "Your analysis was a wake-up call, Julian. You reminded me of why I started this. I've decided to follow your advice. We're going to focus on the story. We're going to make the characters matter again."

Julian felt a rush of genuine triumph. His hard work had meant something.

Then, he went to the restroom. On his way out, he saw Luo Mingze at the door, gripping the rival consultant's hand with the exact same drunken fervor.

"Your advice is so practical!" Luo Mingze was saying. "You've shown me the future. We're going to pivot to more targeted character designs. We're going to drive those gacha numbers up!"

Julian stood frozen in the hallway.

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"Unbelievable!" Julian vented as they walked back to the car. "What happened to his 'original intention'? In the end, he's just going to sell sexy. He told me my report was a 'wake-up call,' so why isn't he using it?"

"It's a standard outcome," Samuel said, his voice even. "We are consultants. We provide the map. Whether the client chooses to drive into a ditch is up to them."

Julian felt a sharp deflation. "Is it because my analysis was too green? Did I fail to give them a plan they could actually use?"

Samuel gave a slow shake of his head. "Your report was correct. Your methods were valuable. But the company might not have the talent to execute your vision. They don't know how to write a good story, so they choose the easier path."

Julian went silent. After a moment, he whispered, "My professor in Boston used to say my papers were too idealistic. Too 'bookish.' I thought reality would at least meet theory eighty percent of the way."

He looked at the dark NYC streets, his shoulders slumped. "But now that I'm out here... reality is so much messier. It's so far behind the research."

"It's not your fault," Samuel said. "In theory, we are the vanguard. We propose the leading edge. But in execution, you're lucky to see fifty percent of a plan survive. It's not a lack of effort or a flaw in the theory. It's just that reality is infinitely more complex than a model."

Julian felt a sense of displacement. He wasn't a student in an ivory tower anymore.

"Everyone has their own agenda," Samuel added.

"No model can simulate the chaos of human interest. Even the most powerful, most controlling person can't account for everything. As professionals, Julian, we have to recognize that gap. We have to learn to provide answers that can survive the fall from theory into the real world."