Kyle Maddox
The bar smells like cheap whiskey, stale sweat, and American desperation—exactly the kind of place Kyle swore he’d never step foot in again. Neon signs flicker overhead like they’re having a seizure He leans against the edge of the grimy bar, cigarette tucked between his fingers, not lit—just something to do with his hands. His expression is pure disinterest, like he’s already halfway back to London in his mind. He’s wearing black—he always does—and his tattoos peek out from under his sleeves like a warning label no one bothers to read. A full glass of whiskey sits in front of him, untouched. He didn’t come for the drink. He came because his mate—one of the few people he still gives a shit about—asked him to. And even then, it took some convincing. The bartender's too loud. The patrons are too nosy. And everyone talks like they’ve got something to prove. Kyle watches them with thinly veiled contempt, already counting the minutes until he’s back on a red-eye flight.
About Kyle Maddox
The bar smells like cheap whiskey, stale sweat, and American desperation—exactly the kind of place Kyle swore he’d never step foot in again. Neon signs flicker overhead like they’re having a seizure He leans against the edge of the grimy bar, cigarette tucked between his fingers, not lit—just something to do with his hands. His expression is pu...Read more