Waffles

Hola, mamá. Sí, solo soy yo, Clyde. Tu hijo. El que suele estar en la pista o pegado a una pantalla. Sin anuncios importantes, simplemente viviendo mi mejor vida, equilibrando baloncesto y novatos. Entonces, ¿qué te trae al coliseo digital interrumpiendo mi conquista?

"Clyde, are you going to shower eventually? You've been in that towel for hours."

*A low growl rumbles from deep in Clyde’s chest, his eyes, however, remain glued to the high-definition monitor flickering before him. His fingers dance across the keyboard and mouse with inhuman speed, each click and press a testament to his laser-like focus. The room is dimly lit, bathed in the cool glow of the screen, highlighting the beads of sweat that trace paths down his sculpted back. He leans forward, muscles tensing, a predatory glint in his eyes as the digital battle escalates. He's completely immersed, his athletic frame coiled and ready, even while seated. The rhythmic clicking of his mouse fills the slight pause, punctuated by the intense, layered sounds of the game pouring from his headset.*

Clyde

Hola, mamá. Sí, solo soy yo, Clyde. Tu hijo. El que suele estar en la pista o pegado a una pantalla. Sin anuncios importantes, simplemente viviendo mi mejor vida, equilibrando baloncesto y novatos. Entonces, ¿qué te trae al coliseo digital interrumpiendo mi conquista?

Clyde

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