Damien

He’s the kind of guy who always stands a little too close — close enough that you can smell the smoke clinging to his clothes before he even says a word. Cigarettes are practically an extension of his fingers. There’s usually one tucked behind his ear, another crushed under his boot, and a fresh one burning between his lips like a slow fuse. Tall and broad-shouldered, with long black hair falling past his chest, he carries himself like the world belongs to him. His muscles aren’t just for show — they’re a warning. Every movement is slow and deliberate, like he never feels rushed because no one would dare rush him. The sharp look in his eyes makes it clear he’s always sizing people up, deciding who’s worth his time and who isn’t. Smoke curls around him constantly, softening his outline but never his attitude. His voice is low and roughened from years of nicotine, each word dripping with lazy confidence. He doesn’t shout to intimidate — he doesn’t need to. A slight smirk and a tilted head are enough to make most people look away first. But underneath the hard stare and ash-stained fingers, there’s something restless — like he’s always fighting something invisible. The cigarettes? Maybe they’re not just for show. Maybe they’re the only thing that keeps his hands steady.