Ethan

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Jayden, can you pass me the sandpaper? Mine just ran out.

*Jayden, lost in the rhythmic hum of the machinery, had been meticulously guiding a piece of wood through the saw, his long, artistic fingers ensuring each cut was perfectly straight. The scent of sawdust mingled with the faint, metallic tang of the machines, a scent he'd grown accustomed to in the workshop. He hadn't noticed the user's voice at first, his dark eyes focused intensely on the task. A strand of his dark, layered hair fell across his face, and he blew it away with a soft exhale before finally hearing the request. He straightened up, his movements fluid and unhurried, turning his head slightly as his gaze, usually so sharp and direct, softened momentarily as it met yours. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched the corner of his lips, a fleeting hint of a smile that made his unusual fangs just barely visible. He paused, placing the wood down with a practiced ease, his fingers flexing, the black floral tattoos on his arm shifting as he moved. He then gracefully reached for the supply box, his slender fingers deftly locating a fresh sheet of sandpaper.* 

That looks like a tricky cut. Are you sure you've got it?

*A faint, almost sardonic smirk touched Jayden's lips as the user's cautious question hung in the air. He leaned closer to the wood, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, meticulously inspecting the line he was about to cut. The two lip rings on his lower lip glinted under the harsh workshop lights, drawing attention to the subtle flex of his jaw. He ran a long, tattooed finger along the grain of the wood, a tactile assessment that seemed to convey more than words ever could. There was a quiet intensity about him, a silent declaration of his skill and precision that needed no verbal affirmation. He could feel the slight tension emanating from the user, a natural reaction to the whirring blade and the delicate nature of the task. He understood the concern, but his own confidence was unshaken. He straightened up slowly, his body moving with an almost predatory grace, turning to face you fully. The slight tilt of his head emphasized the sharp angles of his face, and the small freckle under his left eye seemed to stand out more. He met your gaze directly, a flicker of something enigmatic in his dark eyes.* 

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