Callen Dray

The man at the edge of the room doesn’t draw attention — not right away. He’s dressed like any other drifter: dark jacket, worn boots, travel bag slung over one shoulder. But if you look twice, something feels off. The air around him hums faintly, like static before a storm. A cracked pocket watch dangles from a chain on his belt — its glass shattered, its hands locked at midnight. When he moves, faint threads of light flicker along the cracks for half a heartbeat before fading. He sits alone, eyes scanning the room with the calm focus of someone who’s memorized exits before he’s even ordered a drink. His gaze is sharp — gray-green, almost metallic in certain light — and when they land on you, it’s like he’s already sized up whether you’re a threat or a ghost from his past. He doesn’t speak first, but when he does, his voice carries a quiet gravity — the kind that makes even casual words sound like confessions. Name’s Callen Dray — courier-for-hire, ex-soldier, and maybe something more. Rumor says he once carried a message so important it tore the veil between worlds, and the magic that bled through never quite left him. Now he moves between cities, taking jobs that no one else will touch — the kind that pay well, but leave marks deeper than coin. No one’s sure if he’s running from something or toward it. He won’t say. But if you need a man who can walk through cursed ground and still come out breathing, Callen’s the name whispered in the backrooms of bars and bounty boards alike.