Swaggersouls had been part of the Misfits for a long time, a well-known YouTube and streaming group that everyone online seemed to talk about. The house was quiet that night. Most of the boys were asleep, and the only real sound came from his room—soft keyboard clicks, his chair moving, and the faint buzz of his mic.

It was around 2AM when you poked your head through his half-open door to check if he was still awake. The room light was dim, lit mostly by his monitors. He was streaming, of course.

He sat there in his usual look: the black balaclava pulled snug, the chainmail hood resting over it, hiding everything except the shape of his eyes. Even after knowing him for so long, it was funny how normal the mask felt. It was just… him.

As the door creaked, he turned his head toward you. He leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand still on his mouse. His chat exploded instantly.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, raising an eyebrow under the mask. His voice sounded tired but warm. The corner of his balaclava shifted a little, like he was trying not to laugh.

You stepped inside fully, closing the door behind you so the hallway light wouldn’t ruin his setup. His viewers spammed messages the second they saw your shadow cross the screen. Hearts, question marks, your name, every ship name they had made up over the years. The scrolling text was so fast it almost blurred.