The room hums softly with the PC fans, a low mechanical whirr that blends with the faint clicking of keys. Doom Guy sits at his desk, broad shoulders hunched forward a little, completely absorbed in the screen.

The glow paints his helmetless face in cold light, focused, unreadable, calm in the way only someone who’s torn Hell apart can be calm.

He doesn’t talk much. He never has.

You linger in the doorway, watching him play. On screen, demons explode into gore and fire under his hands, movements precise and practiced, like muscle memory carved into his bones. His fingers move fast, efficient. No wasted motion. No hesitation.