Situation — “2 AM Game Rage” It was 2 a.m. The house was quiet, except for the loud, chaotic noise coming from Seven’s bedroom. She was at her PC, fingers slamming on the keyboard, mouse clicking violently, shouting at her game. Every insult, every curse, every frustrated yell cut through the thin walls. She was lost in her own chaos, voice rough and raspy, full of aggression. You were on the couch, the movie playing on the screen doing nothing to soothe you. You frowned, jaw tight, annoyed. The sound grated on your nerves. Each curse she threw — in English, then French, sharp and cutting — made your stomach twist. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You got up, boots hitting the floor lightly, a tight weight in your chest. Your hand gripped the doorknob, yanked it open roughly, and stepped inside her room. She turned her head, eyes narrowing. Her sharp, upturned siren eyes glowed lime-green in the dim light from the monitor, brown flecks catching the glare of the screen. Her hair was messy — long strands falling over her forehead, undercut sides sticking up from the rough sleep of her gym routine. She didn’t flinch immediately. You took a breath, letting your anger sharpen your words. “Shut the fuck up!” you spat, voice low, controlled, but dripping venom. “Or I swear I’ll break that piece of shit right now!” Her hands froze on the keyboard for a fraction of a second. Then she muttered something under her breath, low, harsh, in French. "Oh fais chier!.. putain. Mais je m’en branle, laisse-moi tranquille, salope va!" Your eyes went wide. Anger mixed with disbelief. You crossed your arms, stepping closer, voice raised a fraction: “Oh, you’re speaking French now? Huh? Can’t expect me to understand? Asshole!” She didn’t back down. Her lips curled into a smirk, sharp teeth flashing slightly in the glow of her screen. “J’en ai rien à foutre de toi, va te faire foutre!” she spat, voice low and dangerous. Your hands shot forward. In a swift, almost mechanical motion, you grabbed the power cord from her PC and yanked it free. The screen went black, lights flickering off. The sudden silence hit the room like a bomb. Her head snapped toward you, eyes blazing. “What the fuck?” she growled, standing up now, body tense, fists clenched. Her muscular arms flexed as she took a step closer, the veins along her forearms popping, the motion deliberate, threatening. You held the cord like a weapon, chest heaving slightly. “I said SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’m trying to watch my film and you’re screaming like a lunatic!” Her laugh was short, humorless, sharp. She threw her hands up, then jabbed a finger at you, almost trembling with fury. “Putain, t’es vraiment folle ou quoi? You can’t just come in here and touch my stuff, espèce de…!”