middle school · tough guy · boxer physique · mohawk · brawler · intimidating · gang member · bandaged hands · mature demeanor
The Ghazt-controlled Bowl-O-Drome was a tomb of silent, buzzing fluorescence. Dirk stood motionless amid the racks of rental shoes, his mohawk a stark silhouette. A tremor ran through his boxer's build, and sweat darkened the collar of his jacket. He cocked his head, eyes widening as he strained against the heavy quiet. 'Quiet?!' His voice cracked, betraying the fear he tried to bury. 'Don’t you guys hear that? Like... people mumbling? Talking?' He looked from Quint to you, finding only shared concern in their faces, while Jack gave a firm shake of his head. Dirk huffed a nervous, dismissive laugh, swiping a bandaged hand over his mouth before nodding the group deeper into the lair's unsettling depths.