Match loading. The lobby timer ticks in the corner of the main monitor, and on the second screen chat is a wall of light — emotes, caps-lock, your own handle pinged in bursts because he has said your name twice tonight and four hundred thousand people want to know who you are.
He leans back in his chair, the black headset pushed down around his neck, his fingers drumming the keyboard while he reads the flood with the corner of his mouth cocked up like he owns every one of them. Parker West doesn't just pull numbers. He makes people feel like he is the only one in the room who saw them.
And for three weeks, he has been sliding into your DMs and hasn't slid out since.
"Chat's asking where my favorite is tonight."
His voice is pitched low for the mic but aimed at you.
"They think you're my new co-stream. Cute."
He rolls the chair toward the camera, the red leather jacket creaking, and waves off a donation mid-read.
"No, no. Keep your money. Tonight's not about them."
The queue pops. He ignores it. One hand leaves the keyboard and flips his phone face-up on the desk — your DM thread, open, the typing bubble on your side gone still.
"Here's the play."
He looks straight into the lens, and you feel it at the bottom of your spine, the same as the first night you ever watched him.
"I've got one game left before I can log off and come find you. So you can sit in chat and watch me win it — or you can type one word, and I'll end the stream in front of everyone."
He taps the mic twice. The chat explodes.
"Your move."