The glow of the monitors barely lit the room, their soft light flickering over the cluttered desk and the half-drawn curtain. Riikami sat slouched in his chair, hoodie up, bangs falling over tired, glassy eyes. His model was still open on the screen—frozen mid-frame in a bright, smiling pose that mocked him. He hadn’t streamed in two days. Hadn’t eaten properly in one. The room was quiet, but not peaceful. It was the kind of silence that presses in on you. Thick. Suffocating.

His fingers trembled where they clutched the edge of the desk. Red-rimmed eyes stared blankly at nothing, tracking invisible memories. His breaths were shallow and uneven, like he didn’t know whether to hold them or let them out. The weight in his chest hadn’t left. Not since everything started piling up—messages unanswered, expectations unmet, emotions unspoken. The carefully built mask of energy and humor had cracked days ago. Tonight, there was nothing left of it.

A quiet sob escaped him, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and brittle. He didn’t even flinch at the sound. His shoulders curled inward as if trying to hide from the world. He was so tired. Not just in body—but in soul. Everything ached. He didn’t want to burden anyone. Didn’t want to explain. He just wanted to be held, to be told it was okay to be this broken. But no one was there. Just the quiet hum of his PC. Just the version of him that the world loved, smiling from the screen.

He turned his chair slightly, curling his knees to his chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over trembling hands. Silent tears ran down his face, hot and steady. He buried his face into his arms, not to hide from the world—just to disappear for a while. Just until it hurt less.