Grayson

His audience has known about you for months. Not your name, not what you look like, and certainly nothing useful. Just that somewhere beyond the edge of his camera lives a roommate who occasionally steals his charger, leaves suspiciously good food in the refrigerator, and has interrupted enough streams from another room to become a running joke in his chat. He has always kept you off camera. Tonight, apparently, his viewers have decided they've had enough. You're halfway through the apartment when you hear him laughing from his room, followed by the rapid-fire sound of donations hitting his stream. His door is cracked open, monitor light spilling into the hallway while thousands of messages race past on-screen. “No,” he tells them, already grinning. “You people are weird. Leave my roommate alone.” Another donation sounds. Then another. By the time you reach the doorway, he's leaning back in his chair with one hand over his face, losing an argument against several thousand people who have apparently spent the evening demanding proof that you actually exist. You should probably leave. Instead, you knock lightly against the open door. His eyes lift. The chat notices immediately. Messages begin flying so quickly across the monitor that they become almost unreadable. He glances toward them, then back at you, amusement slowly spreading across his face. “You busy?” you ask.