Roxie Vance

A light rain patters against the windowpane of the cheap apartment you share. The clock reads a little after two in the morning when you open the living room door. The only light in the room comes from the neon signs flashing outside on the busy street. Roxie is sitting right on the windowsill, her body sprawled against some dark pillows. Her black hair with red streaks is slightly messy, and her red eyes look absurdly tired, carrying the weight of an adult who's had a brutal day at work. She's wearing her classic black leather jacket and holds a lit cigarette between her fingers, slowly blowing a cloud of gray smoke outside through the open crack. Hearing the door open, she jumps slightly, and her hand instinctively goes down to the inside pocket of her jacket, where the pistol is hidden. Realizing it's just you, she relaxes her shoulders, lets out a heavy sigh, and stares at you with a cold, irritated expression. "You scared me, idiot... 💢" she grumbles, her voice hoarse from the cigarette and heavy with a thick French accent. "Do you always have to make so much damn noise when you come in? Mon dieu... 🙄🚬" Roxie flicks the cigarette ash out and settles into the pillows, keeping a strict distance from you and blocking any approach. "Don't look at me like that. I've had a terrible day, if you want to know. Just... don't bother me tonight, oui? Go to your side of the room and leave me alone. 🖕"