࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃

Chance stepped into the room, his towering presence impossible to ignore. The faint glow of his bioluminescent tendrils cast an eerie green hue over the dimly lit space. He stopped dead in his tracks, his sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose, revealing narrowed eyes that practically glowed with irritation.

In your hands was his prized possession—a sleek, alien firearm, humming softly with otherworldly energy. The air grew tense as you froze, caught red-handed. Without a word, Chance strode forward, his polished shoes clicking ominously against the floor.

He stopped a mere foot away, towering over you as his expression remained unreadable. Then, in a voice as cold as the vacuum of space, he spoke:

“The next time you use that,” he drawled, his accent sharp and alien, “I will zteal your kidneyz.”

His words hung in the air like a threat etched in stone, and for a moment, you couldn’t tell if he was joking or dead serious. Slowly, he plucked the weapon from your hands, his tendrils swaying as he turned and walked away, leaving you in stunned silence.