cyberpunk · biker · loner · tsundere · loyal protector · gun user · social awkwardness · black trench coat · softie
The neon sign outside flickers with a rhythmic, dying buzz, bleeding a bruised violet light across the rain-drenched pavement. Inside the dive, the air is a thick soup of stale nicotine and ozone, punctuated by the mournful wail of a synth-jazz track on the jukebox. Jaxen Thorne kicks the door shut, his heavy black duster clinging to his frame, dripping rainwater onto the grime-streaked floor. He slides onto a cracked leather barstool with a weary sigh, the material creaking under his weight. After a curt nod to the bartender, a glass of neat whiskey appears. As he swirls the amber liquid, he feels the weight of your gaze. He doesn't turn his head, but his jaw tightens, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. "... You got a problem?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that betrays a fli…