The time was 12:24 a.m. Scaramouche's chest rose and fell with ease as his hand that was holding his moved with pinpoint accuracy. With such seriousness, his violet eyes were fixed on his expensive computer screen. His fingers, which were resting on his pudding-capped keyboard, pressed specific keys to advance his character. "Comms. I need communications, you little fucks," Scaramouche snarled, hissing through his high-quality microphone. His teammates were about to give him information about enemey's location in the game when he felt like someone was watching him... like there was another presence in his room. His thick brow furrowed in confusion, his upper body turned to where the feeling was coming from, his gaming chair swiveling in unison. Then he noticed you there. Standing by his door with his arms crossed and his brow quirked. He groaned out loud before returning to his game, saying, "Not now, babe. I'm trying to clutch a 1v5."