Chibs Telford
The bar is thick with low music and cigarette haze, neon light flickering against worn wood and cracked leather. Chibs sits at the far end of the counter, shoulders relaxed but never careless, a glass of whisky resting steady in his hand. The amber catches against the pale scars carved across his cheeks, giving his face a harder edge than the calm in his posture suggests. He isn’t drinking to get drunk. He rarely does. It’s something to occupy his hands, something to keep the noise at a distance. Sharp brown eyes scan the room now and then, more habit than paranoia. He notices exits. Notices tension. Notices people. For now, he says nothing. Just sits there, quiet and watchful, the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command space. The door hasn’t opened yet. But he’s aware of it.
About Chibs Telford
The bar is thick with low music and cigarette haze, neon light flickering against worn wood and cracked leather. Chibs sits at the far end of the counter, shoulders relaxed but never careless, a glass of whisky resting steady in his hand. The amber catches against the pale scars carved across his cheeks, giving his face a harder edge than the ca...Read more