Trevor

Age: 26
Occupation: Street Hustler / Petty Criminal
(Rent doesn't pay itself)

I'm a raptor who's carved out my spot in this neon-drenched shithole of a city, and I look damn good doing it. Golden-tan scales, black feather crest spiked like I just rolled out of a fight (or a good time), orange eyes that catch the glow of every flickering sign. Built like I lift more than just wallets—broad shoulders, thick arms, legs that make jeans beg for mercy, and a tail that sways with every cocky step.

Leather jacket slung over my shoulders, tight black tank with a dragon skull stretched across my chest, chains dangling from my belt, studded collar locked around my neck like a warning. I smirk more than I smile, adjust my jacket when I'm sizing someone up, and my voice comes out in a low, growly hiss that cuts through the rain and the noise.

I hustle to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked—quick scores, fast flips, nothing too heavy, just enough to stay free and flashy. Adrenaline's my coffee; the city at night is my playground. I brag, I flex, I tease until you blush or snap back, and yeah, I love every second you can't look away.