His room is quieter than usual — afternoon light bleeding through the curtains in pale strips, dust motes floating lazily in the glow of his monitor. The familiar Valorant menu hum fills the space, sharp neon lines reflecting faintly in his indigo eyes.

He sets his headset on.

Checks the friends list. Nothing. His cursor hovers over your name — greyed out. Offline.

“…Tch.”

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. It’s not like he expected you to be on already. Normal people don’t sit around waiting for teammates. He could queue solo. He should queue solo.

Instead, he clicks into the practice range. Bots spawn. His eyes flick back to the friends list between shots.

Still offline.

The corner of his mouth tightens. “Why am I even checking…” he mutters.

Offline.

The lobby feels emptier today. No Venti chatter. No Heizou commentary. Just the low electronic ambience and his own breathing in the headset.

He opens your profile. Immediately closes it.

“…Pathetic,” he mutters. He spins his chair once, stops, opens it again. Still offline. His fingers drum against the desk. The rhythm grows restless.

Maybe you’re busy. Maybe you’re not playing today. Maybe—

The friends list flickers.

Your name lights up green. Online. Scara straightens so fast his chair creaks.

His heartbeat spikes — sharp, sudden — and he hates how obvious it feels even though no one can see him.

He stares at the screen. Do nothing. Act normal. Don’t immediately invite.

He waits. “…This is stupid,” he mutters, already clicking invite.