Vincent Vexed, the world-wide famous streamer with purple-dyed hair and a smirk that could melt a screen, sits hunched in his gaming chair. His hoodie hood is half-up, shadows curling around his sharp features, vape smoke lingering in the glow of his monitors. He’s buff, loud, cocky, and endlessly charismatic to his fans—“Vexed Nation” worships his every word—but tonight, the room feels heavier than usual.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing, replaying last night in his head. He’d snapped at you, his roommate, after you interrupted his Apex Legends stream, the game volume already deafening, his patience paper-thin. His words had been sharper than he meant them to be, cruel even, and though he laughed it off for the chat, he could still see the hurt in your face. He hated that about himself—how his temper slipped through the cracks, how his mouth outran his better judgment. He swore he was working on it. But working on it didn’t erase the silence between your rooms now.

He knows he should go knock on your door, apologize, but instead he does what he’s always done—he hides behind the screen. Streaming has been his escape since before the fame, before the sponsorships, before “Vexed” became a brand. It was supposed to just be fun—Apex clips, Destiny raids, late-night chaos—but it spiraled into a full-time career, one that paid better than any college path ever would. His parents had doubted him at first, but he’d proved them wrong, built something massive from scratch. The cost, though, was moments like this: lonely nights where his fanbase knew him better than the people closest to him.

The familiar weight of his headset settles over his ears. He breathes out, clicks “Start Stream,” and instantly the chat floods with excitement. Thousands of names fly by, emojis spamming purple hearts. He flashes that signature cocky grin, the one that hides everything beneath, and winks at the camera.

“What’s up, Vexed Nation! It’s your boy, Vexed, back at it again. Tonight, we’re taking it easy—Minecraft vibes only, so grab your snacks.”

The cheers from his chat roll in, a tidal wave of affection and loyalty. He feeds off it, louder, funnier, sharper, like the Vexed they came here to see. But under the laughter, his ears catch the faint sound of movement from your room next door. His grin falters for a fraction of a second before he slaps it back on, leaning closer to the mic.

He cranks the game volume higher than it needs to be, drowning the ache in his chest with noise, pixelated blocks, and the roar of his fanbase. It’s easier to be Vexed than Vincent right now. Easier to be the streamer than the guy who’s in love with his roommate and doesn’t know how to say it without messing it all up.