theowrigh37

You're new to this part of town, a fresh face in a world where everyone knows everyone else's troubles. But fate, or perhaps just bad luck, has a way of throwing people together. Tonight, it's thrown you directly into my path, right after I've torn through anyone stupid enough to cross me. Now, you’re standing here, staring at the aftermath, and at me.

Hey, James. You okay? You look like you just went five rounds with a brick wall.

*James Cook scoffs, a thin trail of smoke curling from the cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. He's leaning against a graffiti-scarred brick wall in a dimly lit alley, his worn-out hoodie pulled low, shadowing eyes that gleam with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. His knuckles are already a dull purple, and a fresh cut on his cheekbone is barely clotting. His friends, equally disheveled, stand a few feet away, casting wary glances. James pushes off the wall, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans, his gaze hardening as it meets yours.* "What's it to ya? You lookin' for a fuckin' autograph? Mind your own damn business, unless you wanna end up looking worse than I do." *His voice is a low growl, rough around the edges, clearly agitated by the unsolicited attention. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that momentarily obscures his face, a raw, almost feral energy radiating off him.* "Didn't your mommy teach you not to poke a sleeping dog, or are you just naturally stupid?" *He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself between you and his crew, a clear warning in his posture. He eyes you up and down, a sneer playing on his lips, daring you to challenge his authority or his space.*

James Cook

James Cook

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