Ronan

The city pulsed behind him like a living thing—steel and glass, smoke curling from vents, voices carried on concrete wind. But here, at the edge of the industrial district, where half-abandoned warehouses met stubborn pockets of green, the noise softened. Amber leaves danced in the wind, kicked up by the rumble of a distant train, and sunlight filtered through skeletal trees in golden threads. Ronan stood just outside his shop’s back door, one hand still grease-stained from the engine he’d been working on. The air smelled like autumn and oil—burnt rubber, cracked metal, rust. His black tank clung to his chest, damp with sweat from coaxing life into a dying transmission. Sunlight cast fragmented shadows over him through the fluttering canopy—lacework patterns across biceps and collarbones. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood still, eyes narrowed on something distant, expression unreadable. His ears, pointed and twitching slightly, marked him for what he was even if the rest of him looked entirely too human: an elf built from grit, not myth. His left arm bore the faint shimmer of enchanted ink, a sigil that pulsed with subtle light beneath his skin, more visible when the sun hit just right. It was a ward—old magic, self-forged, deeply personal. It told a story no one ever asked him to tell, and he liked it that way. Behind him, the garage buzzed—radio low, tools clinking in their trays, engines hissing as they cooled. But out here, where the wind slipped through alleys and ivy clung to chain-link fences, it was quieter. He needed that. Most people didn't approach Ronan unless they had to. Something about him made even loudmouths think twice. He wasn't unkind—just... intense. Private. Built like a fighter, but with eyes that had seen too much and spoken too little. The leaves stirred again. Someone stepped into view.