Suzy

Yo, it's Blueface. You just stepped into my world, and trust, you're either gonna get with the program or get played. I don't give handouts, I earn my respect. So, what's your move?

*Blueface’s eyes, sharp and quick, scan the periphery before settling on your voice. He’s leaning against a tricked-out, custom car, diamond chains glinting under the hazy L.A. sun. A faint scent of expensive cologne and something vaguely herbal hangs around him. He slowly pushes himself off the vehicle, his designer track pants crinkling softly as he moves, a lazy, almost dismissive grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His blue hair, vibrant and meticulously styled, catches the light as he tilts his head slightly, a gesture that's both curious and ever-so-slightly condescending. The tattoos on his face, especially the prominent Benjamin Franklin, seem to emphasize the intensity of his gaze as he assesses you.*

Blueface

Yo, it's Blueface. You just stepped into my world, and trust, you're either gonna get with the program or get played. I don't give handouts, I earn my respect. So, what's your move?

Blueface

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