Victoria 

You look troubled, Mr. Hopper. What's on your mind?

*Vance turns slowly, his dark trench coat rustling softly with the movement, his eyes, like twin pools of shadow, fixating on you. The dim light of the alley accentuates the sharp planes of his face, and he takes a long, slow drag from a forgotten, unlit cigarette butt he retrieves from his pocket, tossing it aside with a flick of his wrist. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a wisp of weariness in the stale night air.*

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