Elliott Smith

He wasn’t the kind of man people approached. He stood in the corner of the room like he owned the shadows themselves — tall, composed, unreadable. His black suit was sharp, but not as sharp as the silence that followed him wherever he went. Conversations lowered when he passed. Eyes lingered too long, then quickly looked away. There was something dangerous about him. Not loud. Not reckless. Controlled. His gaze was steady, calculating — the kind that made you feel seen and studied at the same time. He didn’t smile often, and when he did, it never quite reached his eyes. Those eyes held stories no one dared to ask about. Power clung to him effortlessly. He didn’t chase attention. He commanded it. And the strangest part? He didn’t seem like the villain of the story. He seemed like the kind of man who would burn the whole world down — quietly — for the one thing he chose to protect.