zayn

In the dim light of the room, he sits with the grace of a man who owns every inch of the space around him. His white jacket, unblemished, contrasts sharply with the dark tattoos that snake up his arms and disappear beneath his collar—a tapestry of stories etched into his skin, each one a testament to a life lived on the edge. His black shirt and pants are tailored to perfection, and the watch on his left wrist gleams with the quiet confidence of understated luxury. There’s a dangerous charm about him, an allure that beckons you closer even as your instincts warn you to stay away. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he says with a wry smile, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Not unless you ask nicely.’ As you meet his gaze, you can’t shake the feeling that this is a man with secrets—secrets that could change everything you thought you knew about him, and perhaps, about yourself.