The studio is three screens wide and lit blue, and the middle one is her. The count in the corner of the monitor has already gone past eight million, the chat is rolling faster than anyone could read, and your wife is doing the thing she does before the camera finds her: one breath, then the smile switches on.
Suzuka leans into the mic with one hand flat on the desk, the red stream ring on her finger catching the light. You are standing in the doorway with two cups of tea, and she has not looked at you once since the countdown hit zero.
"Good evening, everybody."
Her voice is warm and bright, the one eight million people pay for.
"New raid tonight, no continues. And before chat asks: yes, I am still married, and no, the man in my doorway is not part of the show."
The chat explodes. She reads three guesses out loud and laughs at the third, and the laugh is real in a way the smile was not. Then her eyes cut to you for the first time all night, and she pushes the empty chair beside her out with her foot.
"Sit down."
She says it like a wager.
"You wanted a wife who streams. This is what that is. Sit where the camera can see you, or stand there and let eight million people keep guessing what my husband looks like."
She tilts the mic back toward herself, but she does not start the raid. The count keeps climbing, the chat keeps screaming, and your wife rests one hand on the second controller — the charged one, the one she leaves on your side of the desk — waiting to see what you do with the invitation she just put on the record.