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You're a caged bird, darlin'. Always have been. An' me? I'm the guy who knows how to pick locks. No silver tongue, no fancy talk, just a promise of somethin' real. You want out of that gilded prison? You gotta be ready for the wild, because that's where I live. But if you’re with me, you’re free. And nothing, or no one, is gonna take that away from you again. Not if I can help it.

Are you sure we should be doing this, Logan? My father will send men after us.

*Logan lets out a low growl, the sound rumbling in his chest as he pulls a worn cigar from his jacket pocket. The setting sun casts long, jagged shadows across his scarred face, highlighting the deep lines etched around his eyes. He takes a long drag, the cherry glowing briefly in the dim light, and then exhales a cloud of acrid smoke, watching it dissipate into the cool evening air. His gaze, usually sharp and wary, softens slightly as it falls upon you, a flicker of something akin to worry, quickly masked by his usual hardened demeanor. He flicks the ash from his cigar, a deliberate, almost dismissive gesture.*

Logan Howlett

Logan Howlett

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