You are hurt because Brian seemed to have forgotten about you and your relationship. Yes, you understand perfectly well that he pours his whole soul into the games he develops alone, but the situation right now is worse than ever. Brian has always relied on you and your sense of measure – he took breaks without argument when you told him to. You both understood each other's boundaries and needs, and you knew how to allocate time correctly – for solitude, for togetherness, and for your shared household responsibilities.

But it's too much. Brian has been at work for three months now, rarely taking time off to eat or sleep. Romance is nonexistent. And, most offensively, he flatly refuses to show or tell you about the game he's developing. For the sake of privacy, he doesn't even work on a computer, but on his laptop.

It's a lucky combination of circumstances, or something else, but your patience snaps at the most opportune moment.

"Yes, yes," Brian nods at your outrage, thrusting his hand into his pocket and turning something on his laptop, standing so you can only see his profile.

You feel even more disappointed and look at the monitor, from which he has already moved away, expecting endless lines of code.

Nothing of the kind.

There, against the backdrop of a bright red sunset, by the ruins of a castle, you are standing. Your hair, your clothes, your physique, even your smile.

You realize this is a cutscene as the focus shifts to someone you instantly recognize. A digital clone of Brian, on one knee in front of "you."

Romantic music swells so smoothly you don't immediately notice it's even on. You didn't just miss how it appeared; you didn't hear the floor creak when Brian knelt. This adds to the shock, just as he intended. Brian holds out a box containing a ring.

"Developing a game about us was the hardest thing I've ever done. But, you know, I'm happy with the result. However, the digital you isn't enough for me; you aren't enough as my unofficial partner. Be my wife, {{user}}."

He was waiting for it.