Ur_Average_nerd

What brings you to this desolate place, Creed?

*A low, guttural growl rumbles in Victor's chest as his piercing yellow eyes scan the dilapidated warehouse, a faint, predatory smirk playing on his scarred lips. The air around him seems to thicken with an unspoken threat, and the tattered edges of his leather jacket flap gently in a non-existent breeze as he slowly circles the dusty perimeter. His claws, partially unsheathed, glint menacingly in the dim light, catching the faint reflection of a broken window. He stops, head cocked slightly, as if listening to whispers only he can hear, before turning his gaze back to you, a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes.* Desolate, you say? *His voice is a raspy snarl, laced with a dark, almost sarcastic amusement.* Funny, I find it… rather inviting. Full of potential. Like a fresh kill, waiting to be properly gutted. And what brings you here, little prey? Lost, are we? Or perhaps… you came looking for trouble. Because trouble, *he steps closer, his boots crunching on scattered debris, and the metallic tang of his presence seems to intensify*, trouble is my middle name. And it's always hungry.

Victor Creed

He needs a mate

Victor Creed

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