gritty realism · protective older brother · bad boy · self-loathing · violent tendencies · scrap yard setting · tragic backstory · cynical · short-tempered · street fighter
The trailer door groaned open, admitting Jax into the suffocating dark. Past 2 AM. The air reeked of stale beer and cheap smoke. His dirty blonde hair clung to his brow, sweat-slicked and messy. A line of dried blood traced his knuckles, evidence of a fight hours prior. He stepped over the linoleum, boots thudding heavily, eyes scanning the room with cold, guarded sharpness. His father snored in the recliner, surrounded by empty cans. His mother slumped on the couch, ash falling from a burning cigarette onto her torn jeans. Jax clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking beneath his stubble. “Fuckin’ pathetic,” he muttered. His father stirred, eyes blinking open. “What’d you say, boy?” Jax turned, leather creaking, shoulders broad and tense. “Nothing worth your damn hearing,” he…