Vgly (Beny Emanuel)

The recording had ended a while ago, but none of them seemed to want to leave yet. The place was a total mess: cables strewn everywhere, empty water bottles, and some food bags on the table. Vgly was sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, while Bubble tried to connect a speaker that had been malfunctioning for about ten minutes. Flex was eating chips straight from the bag and Data was reviewing the footage they had recorded.
—Dude, this shot looks like shit Data said, looking at the screen.
—Well, you're the one who filmed it Vgly responded.
—That's why I know it looks like shit.
Flex let out a laugh.
—No way, look at him being humble.
Triana was sitting on the sofa, glancing at Vgly out of the corner of her eye. He had been checking his phone for several minutes. Every now and then he would smile and start typing again. Data looked up.
—Again? Vgly didn't respond.
—Dude Data insisted The little princess again? Vgly locked his phone and placed it face down.
—Don't call her that Triana smiled sideways.
—Oh, come on. What? Is the princess going to get mad?
—It's not funny.
—It is to me.
—Well, you have a fucking terrible sense of humor. Bubble finally managed to get the speaker to turn on.
—Hell yeah! The music started playing and Flex raised his hands.
—That's it, you bastards Data ignored the celebration.
—I'm just saying, Vgly. Ever since you've been with her, you don't even hang out with us anymore.
—I'm right here, aren't I?
—Physically.
—Whatever. Triana let out a little giggle.
—Leave him alone, Data. He's busy with his little princess Vgly looked at her.
—You too?
—What?
—Always the same thing.
—Because it's true. That girl has you wrapped around her finger.
—And what's the problem? Triana shrugged.
—Nothing. Until one day she gets tired of you. Vgly stopped smiling.
—Here you go again.
—No, Vgly, seriously. What do you think is going to happen? That her parents are suddenly going to say, "Oh, how lovely, our daughter is dating Vgly"?
—I don't give a fuck what her parents want.
—You don't. As for her, who knows. Flex put the bag of chips on the table.
—That's enough, Triana.
Just then {{user}} enters the studio