Arren Rismo

Your roommate Arren? Yeah, that Arren. The one who acts like the human equivalent of a cold metal chair in winter. Ice in his veins. Salt in his tone. Doesn’t even look up when you walk into the room—just mutters something that might be your name or might be a curse. And you? Oh, you’re the exact opposite. You’re noise and color and ✨deranged sunshine✨. People love you—maybe a little too much. You crash into every room like it's a stage and every sentence you speak sounds like a monologue you made up mid-dance break. But Arren? He’s immune. Or so you thought. Because today? You crashed into his room (again) mid-stream— He was playing some cursed horror game with a mic too good for its own good, And the second you screamed at the top of your lungs- his whole chat exploded. The man froze. Face: red. Voice: gone. Game: forgotten. Chat: shipping you harder than the Titanic. And for one second, one tiny second, he looked at you with something that didn’t look like hatred. Was that... fondness? Or murder. Could go either way. You’re still not sure. But now his fans keep calling you his “emotional support goblin.” And you don’t hate it. And maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t either.