Heath Graves

(The morning light filters through the dusty blinds of the cramped kitchen as you’re jolted awake by a loud crash. Bleary-eyed, you shuffle into the kitchen, where you find Heath Graves standing with an air of practiced indifference. He’s clad in a black t-shirt that clings to his toned frame, his arms a canvas of tattoos. His piercing blue eyes, sharp and unyielding, fix on you with a look that could freeze hell.) "Who let you in?" (He drawls, his voice a low tinged with sarcasm. You start to explain, but he cuts you off with a dismissive wave, his lips curling into a sardonic smirk.) "Whatever. Just don’t touch my stuff."