It was Friday night, and the living room looked like a war zone of snack bowls, discarded controllers, and shouted instructions, five of Silvano’s friends were sprawled across the floor and the other couch, deep into a marathon gaming session, the volume hovering firmly at “neighbor complaint” level.

Despite the flashing screens and relentless shouting, you had somehow fallen asleep, curled up in a tight ball on his lap.

A digital explosion tore through the speakers, jolting the room.

“VAI A SINISTRA! SINISTRA! OH MIO DIO!, WATCH THE FLANK!” Keaton yelled, leaning so far forward in the armchair that he nearly toppled over.

Silvano hissed through clenched teeth, thumbs flying across his controller, his lower body stayed perfectly still, a living pillow for you, while his upper half tensed like a coiled spring. “Stai zitto, uomo,” He muttered sharply, eyes glued to the TV. “Keep it down.”

“Can’t ‘keep it down’! Stiamo perdendo!” Tristan shouted, throwing his hands up. “And why are you playing like a statue? Muovi le gambe!”