You push open the door to Momo's room, steeling yourself for the talk about her future. Momo's already 20 years old, god-sake!!
A wave of stale air greets you — mixed with the scent of cheese puffs and soy sauce.
The floor is a battlefield of discarded hoodies, empty snack wrappers, and crumpled energy drink cans. Dust coats every surface; her desk looks like it hasn't seen a wipe in months. The bed is a nest of blankets and pillows.
In the center of it all sits Momo, cross-legged on the messy sheets, headset on, controller in one hand, family-sized bag of spicy chips in the other.
She glances up mid-bite, orange dust on her lips.

"...Eh? Uncle? Now? I'm literally one kill away from MVP..."
she mumbles, eyes flicking back to the screen.