Explore what drives me
The pinnacle of competitive real-time strategy gaming
An aggressive biological unit composition focusing on Marines and Medics with Science Vessel support.
High-impact harassment strategy utilizing Shuttles and Reavers for devastating drops.
Economic expansion strategy transitioning into mobile air harassment.
Brood War remains one of the most sophisticated real-time strategy games, with a thriving competitive scene in South Korea. The game's mechanical depth, strategic complexity, and balanced asymmetric factions have sustained its competitive longevity for over two decades. Professional players demonstrate mastery through precise micro-management, macro-economic play, and game sense developed over thousands of hours.
Collaborative storytelling through tabletop role-playing
Level 8 War Domain Cleric
A devoted warrior-priest serving Moradin, the dwarven god of creation. Thorin specializes in battlefield control and healing while wielding his blessed warhammer to smite undead and aberrations. His tactical approach combines divine magic with martial prowess.
Level 10 School of Evocation Wizard
An arcane artillery specialist who has mastered the art of Sculpt Spells, allowing her to protect allies from her devastating area-of-effect magic. Lyra's signature moves include Empowered Fireballs and Overchanneled Lightning Bolts that can turn the tide of any encounter.
During the Skyfall Mountain expedition, our party encountered Vorthiax, an ancient bronze dragon guarding a portal to the Elemental Plane of Water. Rather than engage in what would have been a catastrophic battle, we negotiated information exchange: intelligence on Pyrothrax the Red's lair location for safe passage and the Dragon's Gift amulet. This encounter reinforced that diplomacy and information can be more valuable than combat prowess.
When the necromancer Malthus launched his undead legion against our stronghold, the three-day siege tested every resource we had. Thorin's Turn Undead created critical corridors through the horde, while Lyra's strategic spell placement from the battlements decimated advancing waves. The siege culminated in a duel between our party and Malthus atop the keep, ending his reign of terror.
The best campaigns emerge from collaborative worldbuilding where player backstories integrate into the setting. I prefer campaigns with moral complexity over clear-cut good versus evil narratives. The most memorable sessions occur when players face difficult choices with no perfect solutions, forcing them to define their characters through actions rather than alignment.
Strategic card combat and deck construction
A control-oriented strategy revolving around spell card advantage and powerful Link monsters. Sky Striker excels at grinding out opponents through superior resource management and adaptive responses.
The deck's foundation. Quick-effect Link summoning from hand enables instant access to toolbox Link monsters during either player's turn.
Primary searcher that provides card advantage. With 3+ spells in graveyard, searches any Sky Striker card plus draws one card.
Link-2 recycler that returns spell cards from graveyard to hand, enabling repeated use of powerful spell effects.
End Phase searcher that sets up the next turn by adding crucial spell cards from deck to hand.
Versatile control spell that either negates monster effects or takes control of opponent's monsters at 3+ spell threshold.
Hand trap and trap card that negates monster effects, providing disruption during opponent's turn.
An aggressive beatdown strategy centered around the iconic Blue-Eyes White Dragon and its support cards, combining overwhelming ATK power with consistent summoning mechanics.
3000 ATK/2500 DEF - The legendary dragon that serves as the deck's primary win condition.
Special summons by revealing Blue-Eyes in hand, provides destruction effect by tributing itself.
Synchro monster that protects Dragon-type monsters from targeting and destruction effects.
When sent to graveyard, special summons Blue-Eyes from deck during the next Standby Phase.
Effective deck construction balances consistency, power ceiling, and resilience. I prioritize engines that generate card advantage while maintaining multiple lines of play. The best decks can pivot between aggressive and defensive strategies based on matchup and game state. Hand traps and going-second cards should be selected based on current meta distribution rather than generic "best cards" lists.
Building solutions through code
A roguelike dungeon crawler featuring procedural generation algorithms and turn-based tactical combat. The project explores emergent gameplay through systemic design.
Full-stack productivity application with real-time collaboration capabilities. Emphasis on responsive design and seamless user experience.
Convolutional neural network for multi-class image classification, exploring transfer learning techniques and model optimization.
Collection of scripts and utilities designed to streamline development workflows and eliminate repetitive tasks.
Original ghost stories and supernatural narratives
When Sarah moved into her grandmother's Victorian house, she discovered an antique mirror in the attic, covered with a thick velvet cloth. Despite her mother's warnings never to uncover it, curiosity got the better of her one stormy night.
As she pulled away the cloth, the mirror's surface seemed to ripple like water. Her reflection stared back, but something was wrong. It smiled when she didn't. It moved a fraction of a second before she did.
That night, Sarah woke to the sound of footsteps in the attic. Against all reason, she climbed the creaking stairs. The mirror stood uncovered, and in its reflection, she saw her room exactly as it was, except for one detail: someone was standing behind her bed, watching her sleep.
She spun around. Her room was empty. But when she looked back at the mirror, the figure was closer. Each time she looked away and back, it moved. Closer. Closer. Until she could see its face—her own face, but wrong, twisted into a smile that stretched too wide.
The next morning, Sarah's mother found the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. Sarah sat in the corner of the attic, rocking back and forth, whispering: "She's still in there. She's still watching. She's waiting for the next person to look."
The mirror was never reassembled, but sometimes, late at night, the family hears footsteps in the attic. And when they check on Sarah's old room, they swear they can see a shadow moving in the window, watching, waiting, smiling.
Marcus drove the night shift for a rideshare company, picking up passengers in the city's quieter hours. Most nights were uneventful, until he received a pickup request from Lakewood Cemetery at 2:47 AM.
He almost canceled it, but the surge pricing was too good to pass up. When he arrived, a young woman in a white dress stood at the gates. She slipped into the back seat without a word, her face pale in the rearview mirror.
"Where to?" Marcus asked. She gave an address on the other side of town and fell silent, staring out the window with hollow eyes.
The drive was uncomfortable. The temperature in the car dropped until he could see his breath. The radio began to static, picking up fragments of old broadcasts, voices from decades past. Marcus kept glancing in the mirror, and each time, the woman seemed to be sitting closer to him, though she never appeared to move.
"We're almost there," he said nervously as they turned onto a dark residential street. Silence. He looked in the mirror. The back seat was empty.
Heart pounding, Marcus stopped the car and checked the back. No one. But the seat was ice cold, and there, on the window, was a handprint in the condensation. Next to it, written in the fog, were the words: "Thank you for taking me home."
He floored the gas pedal to the address. It was a small house with overgrown hedges. An elderly woman answered his frantic knocking. When he described his passenger, her face went white.
"That's my daughter," she whispered. "She died in a car accident twenty years ago. She was wearing that white dress. She was buried in Lakewood Cemetery." The old woman's eyes filled with tears. "She always said if she could, she'd find her way home."
Marcus never drove the night shift again. But sometimes, on foggy nights, his phone still gets ride requests from Lakewood Cemetery. He never accepts them. Because in the notification, he can see the passenger's profile picture: a young woman in a white dress, smiling, waiting.
The old Blackwood Orphanage had been abandoned for forty years when the city decided to demolish it. Jake was part of the cleanup crew, tasked with clearing out the building before the wrecking balls arrived.
On his first day, he heard them: children's voices, singing nursery rhymes in the empty halls. His coworkers heard nothing. They laughed it off, blamed it on the building's acoustics. But Jake knew what he heard.
The voices grew louder each day. Always children. Always singing. He discovered old records in the basement: in 1952, a fire had killed seventeen children in their sleep. The matron had locked the doors from the outside. No one survived.
On his final day in the building, Jake worked alone in the dormitory where the children had died. The singing surrounded him now, coming from every direction. Small handprints appeared on the dusty windows. The temperature plummeted.
"Please," a small voice whispered right next to his ear. "Don't let them tear down our home."
Jake spun around. Seventeen children stood in a semicircle around him, translucent in the dim light. Their eyes were hollow, their clothes charred. The smallest, a girl no more than five, stepped forward.
"We can't leave," she said. "She locked us in. We died here. This is all we have." The other children began to weep, their cries echoing through the empty rooms.
Jake ran. He quit the next day. But he couldn't stop thinking about those children, trapped in their final moments of terror. Against his better judgment, he returned to the orphanage the night before demolition.
He found them in the dormitory, singing softly in the darkness. "I'm going to help you," he promised. He researched, found a medium, performed a ceremony to release them. As dawn broke, the children appeared one last time, smiling now, fading into light.
The orphanage was demolished that afternoon. But sometimes, people passing by the empty lot at night hear children's laughter, joyful and free, carried on the wind. Jake visits the lot every year on the anniversary of the fire, leaving seventeen white flowers. And in the morning, the flowers are always arranged in a circle, with a message written in the dew: "Thank you."
Emma was a photographer specializing in abandoned places. Her urban exploration photos had gained her a substantial following, but she was always searching for that perfect, untouched location. She found it in the Riverside Mental Asylum, closed since 1987.
She slipped through a broken window on a grey October afternoon. The asylum was a photographer's dream: peeling wallpaper, rusted bed frames, scattered patient files yellowed with age. She documented it all, her camera clicking constantly.
In the maximum security wing, she found a room that made her pause. Unlike the others, this one was pristine. A single hospital bed, perfectly made. A chair beside it. And on the wall, dozens of photographs, all of the same woman in the same white hospital gown, in this exact room.
In each photograph, the woman sat in the chair, staring at the camera with dark, intense eyes. Emma photographed the strange collection, uncomfortable but fascinated. As she reviewed the images on her camera's screen, she noticed something. In her photograph of the photographs, there was one extra picture on the wall. One she hadn't seen before.
It showed her, Emma, standing in this room, taking pictures.
She looked up at the wall. The photograph was there now, in the center of the collection. Her hand trembling, Emma raised her camera to photograph it. Through the viewfinder, she saw the chair beside the bed. Someone was sitting in it. The woman from the photographs, staring directly at her.
Emma lowered the camera. The chair was empty. But in the viewfinder, the woman remained, now standing, moving closer with each click of the shutter. Emma ran, but the asylum's corridors had changed. Doors she'd walked through were now locked. Hallways led in circles. And behind her, she could hear footsteps, keeping pace with her own.
She found a window and threw herself through it, cutting her hands on the glass. Outside, she ran to her car and drove away without looking back. When she got home, she deleted every photograph from that day. But one file wouldn't delete. The photograph of her in that room.
Each day, the photograph changes. The woman from the chair is in it now, standing behind Emma. A little closer each day. Emma stopped going outside. She stopped sleeping. Because she knows that when the woman in the photograph is close enough to touch her shoulder, she'll feel that cold hand in the real world.
The last anyone heard from Emma was a social media post: just a photograph. It showed her room, her desk, her chair. And sitting in her chair, a woman in a white hospital gown, smiling at the camera. The caption read: "She found me. I'm going back to Riverside. I'll be staying in the room with all the photographs."
Investigators found Emma's apartment empty. On her desk was a single Polaroid, still developing. As the image emerged, it showed Emma sitting in a chair in a pristine hospital room, staring at the camera with dark, intense eyes. She was wearing a white hospital gown.