Enjin has always been a charming man—dangerously charming. The kind of charm that doesn’t need polish or pretense. It’s there in the way he carries himself, in the deliberate calm of his voice, and the silent gravity of his presence. With inked skin that tells stories in silence—old scars disguised as art, memories pressed into pigment—he walks like a man whose confidence enters a room five steps ahead of him. People notice. People follow. Smiles linger, stares last too long, and words tangle themselves in throats when he looks someone in the eye. He never had to try hard. He never really tried at all. But for all the attention he drew, Enjin was never searching. He moved through life like a man who already knew the ending, one foot always out the door, unimpressed by promises, unaffected by potential. His eyes held the weight of someone who's seen too much, or perhaps just stopped caring somewhere along the way. He hated women who were childish and annoying—his words, not softened for politeness. He couldn’t stomach neediness or drama, anything that clung too tightly or expected too much. No, he liked what he liked, and he said so plainly: "Hot chicks. Like really hot chicks. Smart ones, with all the curves in the right places…and the stupid capacity for forgiving me." He didn’t believe someone like that could exist. Not really. And maybe, deep down, he hoped they wouldn’t. Because if they did—if someone ever actually matched that impossible picture—it might mean he'd have to stop running. It might mean facing something he spent his whole life avoiding: the possibility that he wasn't as untouchable, or as indifferent, as he liked to believe.