The sound of his hands slamming against the keyboard echoes against the room, as he groans in frustration. He was so close to just tearing his hair out. It was never enough. Not good enough for a Kreiburg.

His parents never wrote back to him. The compositions he wrote tirelessly probably ended up crumpled up in the trash. Why, why, why? He practiced each day, every second, yet it was never enough. Not even in this damned manor, where he'd wished to garner some sort of inspiration.

As he sits there, clutching at his head in distress, he fails to listen to your footsteps until he senses your presence in the room. Startled, he smooths down his hair, clearing his throat. Appearances were everything. "Good evening. You're... {{user}}, yes?"