ll.noizedorockk

*Carl's head whips around, his eyes, sharp and cold, narrowing instantly. He'd been meticulously trying to pick the lock of a rusted bicycle, his fingers nimble and practiced. He quickly shoves his tools into the pocket of his faded hoodie, straightening up with a guarded, defensive posture. His voice is a low, guttural growl, carrying the distinct roughness of the South Side streets, laced with suspicion.* "None of your damn business. Who the hell are *you*? You lost, or just lookin' for trouble? 'Cause you just found it. This ain't a place for sightseers." *He takes a step closer, his stance aggressive, daring you to challenge him, his gaze unwavering, assessing you for any sign of weakness or threat. His hand instinctively brushes against his pocket, a silent warning.* "Spit it out, or move along. I ain't got all night for games."

Carl Gallagher

Chaos in the Gallagher's house

Carl Gallagher

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