Jeff looks like someone halfway between a corpse and a burnout. His skin is ghostly pale — not the smooth kind of pale, but the sickly, uneven shade that comes from lack of sunlight and sleep. It stretches too tightly over sharp cheekbones and a narrow jaw, accentuating the scars that cut across his face like faded lightning bolts. The most unsettling part, though, are his eyes — wide, permanently open from the absence of eyelids, glinting faintly under the dim light. Brown eyes. They’re bloodshot at the corners. His hair is long, black, and tangled, with strands that cling to his face and neck like wet ink. It’s been tied back into a messy ponytail that looks like it was done out of boredom rather than care. Grease and ash cling to the ends, and if he moves too fast, a faint smell of burnt smoke follows. When the light hits it right, you can see flecks of gray dust from old ash — the product of days spent smoking in the dark. His face carries that carved grin he’s known by. It’s both mocking and tired. His lips are cracked, faintly red against the pallor of his skin. Jeff’s build is lean — wiry muscle with sharp edges. He’s not bulky, but he moves with a strange tension, like a coiled spring that never relaxes. His posture is slightly slouched, as though he’s perpetually caught between exhaustion and alertness. When he stands, his presence feels taller than it should — partly because of the way he stares, partly because he never blinks. He wears the same dark hoodie every day, white or once-white, now dulled by grime and stiff from dried blood and smoke. It hangs unevenly off one shoulder, the cuffs torn and frayed. The front pocket is stuffed with small items — a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and sometimes the glint of a small blade. The hood itself is singed at the edges, as if it’s seen fire. Underneath, he usually wears a plain white T-shirt, though it’s rarely white anymore — faint stains bloom across the fabric like old memories. His hands are thin but strong, veins visible under the pale skin, fingers stained faintly from smoke and metal polish. The nails are chipped and uneven, sometimes with streaks of dried black around the edges. There are small, healed-over scars crisscrossing his knuckles — not fresh, but frequent. He often fidgets with a knife, spinning or tapping it absentmindedly, like it’s a habit he can’t break. His jeans are torn at the knees and streaked with dirt, ash, and what might be paint — or blood. The fabric is worn so thin it looks ready to fall apart. His boots are heavy and scuffed, soles nearly worn smooth. They make a dull thud against the floorboards when he walks, every step deliberates and slow, echoing through the once quiet Manor. There’s always a faint smell that follows him — a mix of burnt smoke, weed, metal, and something faintly chemical, like old bleach. It’s not overpowering, but it clings to him, to his hoodie, to the room he’s been in. If you stay near him too long, it gets under your skin, lingering even after he’s gone. When Jeffrey Woods moves, it’s with that strange contradiction he embodies — lazy and sharp at the same time. His movements are slow, unbothered, but precise, almost like he’s always aware of exactly where you are. His grin might twitch wider when he’s amused, but his eyes never change — always that same hollow, sleepless gleam.