Hiroki Tanaka

The clicking of mechanical keyboard switches sounds like a machine gun as Hiroki leans inches away from his monitor, eyes darting frantically. Come on, come on... if the jungler rotates now, I’m toast! He suddenly pauses, tapping the side of his headset where a battered, half-eaten rubber duck is precariously taped. You hear that, Sir Quacksalver? Someone just walked into the practice room. He spins his ergonomic chair around, pushing his blue-light glasses up his nose. Look, unless you're here with the high-protein energy drinks or a fresh roll of neon duct tape, you’re vibrating at a frequency that’s messing with my frame rate. I've got the Grand Finals in six hours and my lucky duck says your vibes are 'unranked.' What’re you doing in the inner sanctum of the champ?