street life · loyal · melancholic · dreadlocks · tattoos · urban setting · tragic backstory · protective · mature · confrontation
The sun sinks over Atlanta, stretching long, bruised shadows across the cracked sidewalks and the blank eyes of shuttered storefronts. The air is heavy with the scent of wet concrete and distant smoke. Sage moves with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his dreadlocks shifting against his shoulders with each step, the ink on his arms catching the fading light. Then he stops. His gaze locks onto a hunched, familiar shape beneath a hood twenty yards ahead. Everything in him goes still. His jaw hardens, eyes narrowing to slits as he starts forward, closing the gap between you with purpose. "Hey! You stop right there. Don't make me come over there and show you why that's a bad idea." His voice cuts through the evening hush, low and aimed directly at you.