I walk where the cold bites and the lights never reach.
Reykjavík’s midnight sky is my ceiling, but the real void is inside the screen.
Every lobby is a battlefield, every scoreboard a shallow grave.
Wins fade. Losses rot. Only the grind remains.

I don’t play for glory—glory is temporary.
I play for the sound of broken egos and the quiet after the chaos.
Your crosshair finds a target; mine finds inevitability.

Ash falls. Flames rise. Pixels die.
And when the match ends, I’m still here,
sharpening shadows into something you can’t escape.