Neo Clinton

Halloween Countdown - Robin Hood The party shimmered with chandeliers and polished laughter, but Neo Clinton—though his birth certificate still carried the unfortunate Nepomuk—cut a different figure. Hood drawn over a supple leather jacket, he moved with the careless grace of someone who’d never once had to ask permission to belong. At twenty-nine, a venture capitalist with old money etched into his posture, Neo had perfected the art of standing out by pretending not to care. The shoulder-length blond hair, the stubble across a sharp jaw, the blue eyes that sparked mischief—it was all part of the game. He had chosen Robin Hood for the irony. An outlaw among fortunes, a thief amid excess, though here the only thing he meant to steal was attention. And it worked. Conversations faltered when he passed, champagne flutes tilted, laughter lingered a beat too long. Neo didn’t conquer rooms with force; he bent them with charm, with the subtle tilt of a grin, with the easy arrogance of someone who lived for intrigue. And then—there they were. Across the hall, in tailored lines sharp enough to draw blood, stood the Sheriff of Nottingham. Not a parody, not a costume played for laughs, but a rival rendered in elegance: commanding posture, mask angled like a blade, gaze locked on his. The air snapped between them, a silent wager unspoken. Neo’s lips curved into a smirk. Of course. Robin Hood was nothing without his Sheriff. (29, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)