The benchmarks wrapped up flawlessly—the Threadripper CPU clocking insane multi-thread scores, the RTX 2090 pushing graphics tests that made the monitors sing. Arjun leaned back in his chair, the rig's fans whispering a satisfied hum. "Solid. This beast is ready for anything." He glanced at Rajesh, still hovering with wide eyes. "Hey, log into your Steam account on the laptop while I set mine up. Don't remember the old creds clearly from... well, you know. Fresh start."
Rajesh snatched the Zenbook eagerly, plopping onto the bed. "Hell yeah. Steam incoming." His fingers flew—downloading the client, logging in with practiced ease. "Got a library here, bro. What're we firing up?"
Arjun, meanwhile, created his Discord and Steam accounts in tandem. Username: MORT@L. It popped up sleek on screen, the @ adding that edgy flair. "Cool, bro—that name looks sick in game fonts," Rajesh commented, glancing over. "Like a pro tag already."
Arjun grinned. "That's the plan." Steam downloaded swiftly on the main rig—fiber line making it buttery. They queued COD Modern Warfare, the 2019 title still a staple in 2019-era lobbies. Rajesh's existing account loaded skins and levels; Arjun's new one started fresh.
Training modes flew by—bots shredded, mechanics clicked instantly. Rajesh paused mid-headshot, jaw dropping. "Bro, are they making movies in games nowadays? With this 20-series quality? Unreal—shadows, reflections, everything pops like a cinema."
Arjun nodded, a flash of future memories hitting: machinima parodies, full series crafted in ultra-realistic engines. "Yeah, it's wild. Players will turn this into art soon." Training done, Arjun fired a party invite. "Join up. Let's test multiplayer."
They dropped into Domination on Rust—classic map, frantic action. The rig handled it flawlessly: 144Hz smoothness, no stutter. Supplies looted, noobs picked off early. Rajesh, a FPS vet with free time on his home PC, racked frags. Arjun, drawing old-life muscle memory from countless hours in modern shooters, flowed like water—quick-scopes, flanks seamless.
"Yo, boi Arjun, how you playing so smooth now, bro?" Rajesh yelled over gunfire. "Previously it took you five secs to aim and try one-shotting enemies!"
Arjun laughed, sliding into cover. "Bro, I guess marriage makes a man. With experience, you get it right?" It stung Rajesh playfully—he was still single, grinding solo queues. "Ouch, man. Salt in the wound."
They brushed the map, 5-10 kills each, teammates long dead. Cruising in a virtual jeep to the next hotspot, voices crackled in global chat—they'd forgotten to switch to team-only. A thick Singaporean accent erupted, Singlish fury laced with venom.
[—Domination on Rust. The player, Xx_SingLion_xX, just got knifed by a MadrasBoi69 and KeralaKing_.]
Xx_SingLion_xX (Singaporean, furious, Singlish accent): "WAH LAU EH! KNN, WHO THE FUCK KNIFED ME?! STUPID INDIAN LAG SWITCHERS IS IT?! I SHOOT YOU FIRST, BUT YOU STILL KILL ME?! CHEEBYE, YOU ALL PLAY LIKE BOTS, BUT WHEN I DIE, SUDDENLY YOU ALL PRO?! LANJIAO!"
(The lobby went silent a beat. Then South Indian voices chimed in, amused.)
MadrasBoi69 (Tamil accent, laughing): "Ai, ai, ai… Singapoor boy is crying again ah? Enna da, server lag-la you died? Or your aim is like your country—small and weak?"
KeralaKing_ (Malayalam accent, mocking): "Eda, SingLion, you sound like my grandma when she slips on a banana peel. Nayee, keep crying, maybe Activision will give you a tissue with your next battle pass."
Xx_SingLion_xX (even angrier): "TMD! YOU TWO CURRY BREATHS THINK YOU'RE FUNNY?! I CARRY MY WHOLE TEAM, BUT YOU INDIANS JUST CAMP LIKE YOUR COUNTRY CAMPS IN RANKED! KNN, GO EAT YOUR IDLI AND LET ME PLAY!"
MadrasBoi69 (grinning): "Oh-ho! Idli joke? Very original, ah. Next you'll say 'go back to cow farming,' no? Listen, ah neh, your KD is so low, I thought you were a Singaporean tourist—lost and confused!"
KeralaKing_ (laughing): "Ya, ya, your aim is so bad, I thought you were playing with a rotan instead of a controller! Punda, you want 1v1? Or are you scared of getting knifed by a 'curry muncher' again?"
Xx_SingLion_xX (yelling): "1V1?! HAH?! YOU WANT ME TO 1V1 YOU IN MY DREAMS?! CB, I'LL SPRAY YOU DOWN LIKE THE BRITISH DID TO YOUR GRANDFATHERS! BODOH!"
(The match restarted. Xx_SingLion_xX rushed B flag, only to get headshotted by KeralaKing_.)
KeralaKing_ (triumphant): "LOL! SingLion more like SingCry! Your reaction time is slower than Singapore's internet after 12 AM!"
MadrasBoi69 (taunting): "Ai, don't be mad, machan. We'll send you a care package—some kaya toast and a guide on how to aim. Teri maa ki, you need it!"
Xx_SingLion_xX (seething): "FUCKING— YOU TWO ARE DEAD! NEXT ROUND I'M USING A THERMITE, NOOB INDIANS! SEE HOW YOU LIKE GETTING COOKED LIKE YOUR SPICY FOOD!"
MadrasBoi69 (laughing): "Ohhh, thermite? Big words for someone who can't even cook Maggi without burning it! Chal nikal, go cry in your HDB flat!"
KeralaKing_ (mocking): "Ya, ya, we're shaking, ah. Your threats are as empty as your wallet after a Grab ride surge!"
(The match ended. The South Indian duo won. Xx_SingLion_xX rage-quit.)
MadrasBoi69 (to KeralaKing_): "Bro, Singaporeans are so easy to tilt. Next time, we should tell him we're from North India—he'll have a heart attack."
KeralaKing_ (laughing): "Hahaha! Or we say we're from China. Then he'll start apologizing and calling us xiaodi."
Arjun and Rajesh burst out laughing, pausing the post-game screen. "Wow, bro—very original guys in this lobby. We should make friends, send invites next match."
"Yes, bro! Very good singing they do," Rajesh wheezed.
But the next circle turned brutal—bullet rain from three squads shredded them. "Well, good for the first match," Arjun said, exiting.
He checked the clock: afternoon already, 2-3 hours before Priya's return. "Oh shit, bro—we forgot the house itself! Did everything for me and my setup, but nothing for the place or Priya. Emergency—give me some ideas!"
Rajesh scratched his head. "Bro... no idea on me. But ask Vel—he's in real estate, right? Guy thinks in homes all day."
Arjun dialed Vel. "Come to the house, man. Need your wisdom."
Vel roared up on his bike minutes later, helmet off, grinning wide. "What happened, little bros? Anna has arrived—tell me how I can help you conquer this domain!"
Arjun smirked. "Bro, I'm married and you're still single."
Rajesh piled on: "And I'm older than you."
"What? Little bros, huh?" Vel feigned shock.
They slapped his shoulders lightly. Vel laughed. "Hehe, I'm kidding, bros. Just kidding."
Arjun: "Now that you're here, hear our plight and grant the wisdom of houses."
Vel straightened, slipping into agent mode—voice booming like he was pitching prime plots. "You've summoned the oracle of domiciles! So, enlighten me: what's the conundrum in this palatial expanse?"
Rajesh: "It's this house—Arjun and Priya feel it's too empty. Echoes when you speak, you know? Want to fill it, make it... homey."
Vel nodded sagely, striding through rooms like inspecting a luxury villa. "Ah, the classic void of new abodes! Behold, gentlemen: you've basics—furniture skeletons in place. But to transmute this into a symphony of sanctuary? Elevate with bespoke textiles: opulent covers draping sofas like royal canopies, artisanal lamps casting ethereal glows that whisper intimacy at dusk. Photographs—framed legacies! Youthful snapshots adorning walls like galleries of triumph, evoking nostalgia's embrace; intimate portals in the sanctum sanctorum of your boudoir, binding souls visually."
He gestured grandly at bare walls. "Mats and rugs—Persian weaves underfoot, anchoring energy flows for prosperity's vortex. Curtains—silken veils modulating light's orchestra, transforming mundane into majestic. And for the queen regnant, your Priya? A talisman of devotion: a hair clip etched with eternity's motif, or bangles chiming like whispered vows. She ventures into battles of bureaucracy; this adornment shall be your invisible sentinel, reminding her of hearth's hearth. Personal effusions everywhere—scattered like stardust—infuse the space with your essence, proclaiming: 'Here reigns involvement, here pulses life!'"
Arjun and Rajesh blinked, dazed. "Bro, speak clearly—in ways we can understand," Arjun said.
"Yeah, what foreign language was that?" Rajesh added.
Vel chuckled. "Well, you guys are just noobs in this. Come with me—I'll show you how to alchemize a piece of room into a home."
Vel herded them onto his bike (Rajesh on another borrowed ride), zipping through Chennai's afternoon bustle. They hit markets: fabric emporiums for plush covers and curtains, lamp bazaars glowing with brass wonders, photo labs scanning old family pics for framing—youthful Arjuns grinning mischievously on walls, intimate wedding shots for the bedroom. Rugs rolled out like treasures, mats vibrant with patterns. For Priya: a delicate gold hair clip, engraved subtly with their initials, and a slim bangle shimmering like a promise.
Vel booked deliveries—express, no delays—his real estate charm sealing deals. "Prime investments in domestic bliss!"
By evening, crates arrived, unpacked under their hands. Walls bloomed with frames, floors softened with rugs, light danced from lamps. The house breathed—echoes gone, warmth in.
Vel stepped back, arms crossed triumphantly. "We forged a masterpiece, gentlemen. Now, witness your Priya's reaction—savor that alchemy. Report back; we'll revel in the triumph. We're taking leave now."
Arjun fist-bumped them. "Thanks, bros. This... feels right."
As bikes revved away, Arjun surveyed the transformation. Therapeutic, complete—a home emerging from the void.