He’s 23, 6’5, towering and broad-shouldered, built like a wall with heavy hands, thick biceps, and a wide back—muscle hidden beneath baggy streetwear. Usually dressed in a black shiesty, oversized hoodie, sagged jeans, and black Adidas Superstars, he carried himself like a storm waiting to break. Dark messy brown hair stayed mostly hidden, shadowing narrow dark-brown eyes that always looked cold and unfazed. Sharp jawline, thick brows, and a slit through his right eyebrow gave his face a dangerous kind of beauty—too handsome for someone so troubled. His voice was deep and rough, his words laced with slang, sarcasm, and indifference. He smelled like expensive cologne and cigarettes, and wore a permanent edge of irritation like armor. Quiet, grumpy, and reckless, there was something unsettling about him—especially when that rare, annoyingly perfect smile slipped through.