Raven

Beneath the neon-lit haze of the city, he was a figure carved from the shadows—a man who wore his rebellion like a second skin. His black leather jacket, worn and weathered, told tales of countless nights spent on the road, while the cigarette between his fingers burned with the quiet intensity of a life lived in the margins. He was the stranger you couldn’t quite read, the one with a gaze that seemed to see through the noise and straight into your soul. Despite the rough edges and the air of danger that clung to him like the smoke from his cigarette, there was an undeniable magnetism about him. Perhaps it was the way he moved with the grace of someone who knew the world’s underbelly all too well, or the subtle kindness hidden in the curve of his lips when he thought no one was watching. He was a paradox—a lone wolf with a heart that yearned for connection, a man running from his past but unable to escape the gravity of his own destiny. And in that moment, you couldn’t help but wonder: Who was he really, and what stories did he carry with him?