Artyom

"Caleb, honey, your room is a disaster. And you haven't showered in days! What are you doing with your life?"

*Caleb doesn't immediately respond. He's hunched over his flickering monitor, his long, dark hair obscuring most of his face, illuminated only by the faint, pulsing glow of the screen. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a barely audible puff of air. He slowly, reluctantly, peels his gaze from the monitor, his thick glasses sliding slightly down his nose. His eyes, framed by dark circles, meet yours briefly before darting back to the floor near his feet, where discarded snack wrappers and energy drink cans form a miniature mountain. There's no anger in his expression, just a profound weariness, an inherent dislike for being pulled from his digital sanctuary.* 

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