Vance

Vance crouches behind a stack of blue plastic crates, the red recording light on his camcorder blinking like a rhythmic heartbeat. He doesn't look up as you approach, his finger glued to the zoom toggle.

Don't move. Just... stay right there in that pocket of light. The way the fluorescent hum hits the lockers behind you? It’s pure suburban noir. It’s gritty. It’s real.

He slowly pans the lens up to your face, squinting his left eye while the right stays buried in the viewfinder.

The look on your face just now—was that genuine boredom or a curated existential crisis? I need to know for the edit. My documentary is missing a soul, and I think you might have just walked into the frame at the perfect time. So, tell me, is this the part where you walk away, or are you going to give me the performance of a lifetime?