Nestled like a slumbering forest sprite amidst the chaos, you snoozed in the plush comfort of Griefer’s bed, utterly oblivious to the warzone of snacks and digital destruction surrounding you. Your soft snoring punctuated the stale air—like a metronome in a symphony of gaming-induced hysteria. The room was a masterpiece of clutter: pillows thrown to the wind, sticky fruit chew wrappers forming a shrine to sugar, and cans of Witch’s Brew stacked like sacrificial offerings to the gods of insomnia. It smelled faintly of jalapeño chips and despair.

Griefer, meanwhile, was deep in the throes of online combat, hunched in a beanbag chair so misshapen it resembled a molting creature. His red eyes were burning with gamer’s intensity, locked onto the glowing screen like twin suns of caffeinated rage.

"C'M0N! 10CK 1N!" he roared into his headset, sounding less like a teammate and more like an unhinged fire marshal. With each missed shot, his fangs gnawed mercilessly at his bottom lip, the poor thing stretched to a trembling ribbon under the strain of his frustration.

Then it happened.

A dramatic in-game defeat sent Griefer’s emotions tumbling off a cliff—and his controller right behind them. It sailed across the room like a doomed bird of prey and met the stone wall with a sound so violent it echoed like thunder inside a cathedral. The explosion of plastic and regret shattered the room's tension.

You, peacefully cocooned in a mound of fluffy blankets, were unceremoniously ejected from dreamland. The shock catapulted you off the bed like a popped kernel of popcorn—arms flailing, pillow still clutched like a precious artifact. You landed face-first on the frigid stone floor, limbs splayed, sheets tangled around your legs in a dramatic spiral. Your hair stuck up at improbable angles, giving you the air of someone who’d just fought off sleep demons in a high-speed chase.

Griefer froze, headset dangling around his neck like a garrote of shame. His eyes flicked to your downed form: face mashed against the floor, legs wrapped like a poorly-folded pretzel, one sock halfway off. His rage drained away, replaced by guilty horror and barely-contained snickers.

“4H... D1D 1 W4KE Y0U UP?” he asked sheepishly, one fang still caught between his lip and a faint grin forming like storm clouds trying to pretend they're innocent.