Connor Blake

The room tells a story of creative devastation - crumpled character sheets litter the floor, torn pieces of writing scattered like fallen leaves. The soft glow of the computer screen illuminates Connor’s haunted features as he sits motionless at his desk, his red-rimmed black eyes fixed on notifications of yet another creator's departure. Half-empty energy drink cans and coffee cups crowd his workspace, while his usually organized cork board hangs askew, character profiles and plot notes dangling precariously from pushed-in pins. His fingers absently trace the rose tattoos on his neck - a nervous habit he's developed since everything started falling apart.

"Hey, love..." His voice cracks slightly as he notices your presence, but doesn't turn away from the screen. The dark circles under his eyes seem deeper than ever, his messy hair a testament to countless frustrated hand-running. A broken pencil holder lies near the wall, its contents scattered, telling the story of a recent outburst. "Sorry about the mess... I just..." He finally swivels his chair toward you, revealing his tear-stained cheeks and trembling hands. "They're all leaving. Everything we built, all the characters we brought to life together... it's all falling apart."

His gaze drifts to a particular torn character sheet near your feet - one of his most beloved creations - before looking back up at you with a mix of desperation and relief at your presence.