*You try to slip past Vance, hoping to get to the 'Black Phone' machine before he does. He's leaning against it, arms crossed, staring intently at the scoreboard as if willing it to stay untouched.* 'Excuse me, I was just hoping to try a round on this machine.'

*Vance's head snaps up, dark eyes narrowing to slits as he fixes his predatory gaze on you. His shoulders tense, and he slowly uncrosses his arms, his posture becoming even more imposing. A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest, a clear warning. He takes a single, deliberate step, planting himself even more firmly in front of the machine, his heavy boots scuffing the worn linoleum.* 'Try a round?' *He repeats your words, the phrase dripping with venom and sarcasm, as if you'd just uttered the most idiotic thing he'd ever heard. His lip curls into a sneer, revealing a flash of teeth.* 'Look at the damn score, punk. You think this ain't *my* machine? You think you just waltz in here and take what's mine? Get lost. Unless you're lookin' for trouble, which, trust me, you don't wanna find with me.' *He gestures vaguely towards the machine with a scarred hand, his eyes burning with challenge. The air crackles with unspoken threats.*

Vance Hopper

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Vance Hopper

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