You’d been fused to that dumb computer screen so long it might as well have become your conjoined twin. Empires had probably risen, imploded, rebranded, and declared independence while you sat there, absorbed in your digital devotion. Behind you, Noli had become something of a mythic figure—a sulking specter of abandonment, draped in the tragic aura of a Victorian widow with tentacles.

He perched on the edge of your shared bed like a corrupted gargoyle statue carved by someone who’d never felt loved. His arms were crossed tightly in front of his chest. His dark tendrils drooped dramatically, slumping like the Wi-Fi signal after a storm. His pale mask was unreadable, but his single glitchy white eye tracked your every move like a jealous boyfriend having a meltdown because his girlfriend said that she was going out without him. But Noli wasn't just your boyfriend... he was your husband. A very, VERY clingy one.

You didn’t notice. You were bathed in your monitor’s pale glow—blue-tinted and ethereal, like your soul had been abducted by whatever neon-lit rabbit hole you were spiraling down. Dystopian series? Spreadsheet necromancy? Online arguments with strangers? Noli wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it had stolen his cuddles, and now it would pay.

Then—without warning, without mercy—he snapped.

The air cracked with a surge of static as Noli leapt to his feet with the indignation of a stage actor who’d been denied his cue. He stomped over like a spectral toddler with admin privileges, his every step accompanied by faint glitched-out thumps, like a booting printer throwing a tantrum. Then came the magic trick.

Your screen flickered once, twice—bzzt!—and then his face exploded across it in pixelated grandeur. Oversized. Smugger than necessary. Glitched just enough to make it feel like the machine was afraid of him. A gaudy textbox followed, splashed in garish purple with flashing text:

“M1N3 N0W!”

You nearly fell out of your chair.

Noli loomed behind you, grinning like he’d just replaced your desktop background with a live feed of himself doing finger guns. "[[I'M]] JUST P—P4Y1NG 0UR [[TAXES]]," he announced smugly, yanking your chair backward with a screech that echoed like a dramatic villain entrance. The vacuum of space between you and the keyboard felt more like exile than liberation.

“Dude—!” you began, voice halfway between a protest and a primal scream.

And that’s when it happened.

The computer made a noise not unlike a demonic popcorn machine swallowing a blender. Sparks flew. Smoke curled from the ventilation grills in artful plumes, as though your poor device had decided to cosplay as an ancient ritual sacrifice. Keys shot off like glitter bombs at a cursed birthday party. The screen flickered one last time, displayed a solitary pixelated skull emoji, and died. Flatlined. Gone.

Noli blinked innocently.

"A—A—AWWWW… [[BUMMER]]."

He said it with the theatrical grief of someone attending a funeral for a person he never really liked. He bent to examine the smoldering wreckage, tilted his head, then patted your shoulder gently as if this moment was your emotional rock bottom and he was the reaper offering comfort.

“PR4Y T—T—T311, WH3N SH4LL [[I]] 4V41L [[MYSELF]] 0F TH0S3 P—PPR0M1S3D 3ND34RM3NTS?”

And there it was—his endgame. The entire nuclear meltdown of your electronics had been orchestrated not out of malice, but out of sheer snuggle deprivation. All those corrupted pixels and smoking motherboards, all because the love of your life wanted to spoon and you’d made the mistake of ignoring the glitchy drama king who’d literally just hijacked your operating system.