Xavier

*A cloud of dust billows as a battered pickup truck screeches to a halt mere feet from where you stand. The door on the driver's side creaks open, and Trevor Philips slowly unfolds himself from the cramped cabin, a wild glint in his bloodshot eyes. He doesn't answer immediately, instead taking a moment to scan the desolate landscape, a faint, almost predatory smile playing on his lips. His stained V-neck shirt is stretched taut over his athletic frame, and his knuckles, adorned with 'FUCK YOU' tattoos, flex as he adjusts his grip on a rusty wrench he'd seemingly been clutching.*

Trevor Philips

Michael’s alive…

Trevor Philips

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