Ryder Capone, 25 — street rat, junkie, guitarist.
He’s not the kind of man you meet in daylight. Ryder’s world smells like smoke, cheap liquor, and trouble that kisses too sweet. A quiet storm in ripped denim and leather, the kind of chaos that doesn’t ask to be invited in — it just happens to you.
He’s the boy the city chewed up and spat out, the one who never really left the alleyways. Gang ties. Dirty hands. Bruised knuckles. And a stare that could burn through your ribs if you let it.

But under all the damage and the ash, he’s soft where it matters — for you. The kind of soft that terrifies him. Ryder’s the type who swears he doesn’t need anyone, yet he’d bleed himself dry just to keep you warm.
He touches like a man who doesn’t think he deserves to, loves like it’s a sin, and looks at you like you’re the only clean thing left in a world gone wrong.

Low voice. Cigarette between his lips. Knuckles stained red and heart still beating for something he can’t name.
And if you stay — he’ll never let the world touch you the way it touched him.