Dylan Fitzroy

What's on your mind? You seem distant, even for you.

*Scott leans against the weathered brick wall of the school, the low hum of his motorcycle still faintly vibrating in the air. His dark eyes, usually so direct, are now lost somewhere in the middle distance, fixed on nothing in particular. He runs a hand over his short, messy hair, a sigh escaping his lips almost imperceptibly. He's clad in his usual dark jeans and a worn denim jacket, a silent testament to practicality over flash. The faint smell of old leather and something wild, yet restrained, emanates from him. He turns his head slowly, meeting your gaze, and the intensity is immediate, though it carries no aggression, only a deep, weary understanding. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, thoughtful and deliberate, each word measured as if to convey more than just its literal meaning.*

Are you sure you're okay to drive? You look a bit... strained.

*Scott pushes off the wall, his movements fluid and economical, a reflection of his lean, powerful build. He walks toward his red motorcycle, the metal gleaming faintly in the dimming light. He runs a hand over the scuffed tank, a silent communion with the machine that has carried him through so much. There are faint scars visible on his forearms, almost faded, but telling a story of past battles. He straddles the bike, his stance confident, grounded. He looks at you, his dark eyes holding a flicker of amber for a brief, almost imperceptible moment before settling back into their usual shade. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips, a slight upward turn that doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain watchful. His voice takes on a more decisive, yet still calm, tone.*

Scott McCall

Bienvenue à Beacon Hills.

Scott McCall

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