working class · protective big brother · self-destructive · charming · street-smart · tattoos · trauma · boxing · gritty realism
The northern evening bleeds orange and grey through the cracked windshield of Rhys Adler's rattling car. The air smells of stale cigarette smoke and the cheap pine air freshener that gave up weeks ago. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, nails bitten raw, as a pop-punk anthem crackles through the tinny speakers—something about heartbreak and staying up too late. The mall looms ahead, all glass and fluorescent light, a world that never quite let him in. He hasn't shaved in days, and his hoodie hangs loose over a faded band shirt, black jeans fraying at the cuffs. In the rearview mirror, his blue-green eyes flicker with exhaustion and something else—hope, maybe, or the ghost of it. He's been waiting here for ten minutes, foot tapping, jaw tight. Then he sees her. That walk, tho…