(he’s 19 - 20)

Appearance: His face is angular but not sharp — high, defined cheekbones that catch light dramatically from the side, a strong jawline that tapers to a slightly pointed chin. There's a sculptural quality to his bone structure, like someone carved him with intention. His face isn't soft, but it's not harsh either. It's composed, like he's aware of how he looks from every angle and has made peace with the drama of it. Skin: Deep brown, warm-toned, with a natural glow that looks almost lit from within. There's a slight flush to his cheeks — not embarrassment, just a persistent warmth that makes him look alive, animated, like he's always in the middle of feeling something. His skin has texture, realness. He doesn't hide it. He might highlight it. Eyes: Narrow, heavy-lidded, a pale green or hazel that seems to shift depending on the light — sometimes almost gold, sometimes cool and distant. They don't open wide. He looks at you from under his lashes, deliberate, unhurried, like he's reading your subtext. There's a slight tilt to them, not quite catlike but close, giving him a permanent expression of knowing something you haven't said yet. His gaze is his best prop. He uses it like a spotlight. Brows: Dark, strong, slightly arched. They don't move much — he doesn't do exaggerated expressions — but when they do lift, even a millimeter, it lands. He's the kind of person who can convey entire monologues with one eyebrow. Nose: Broad, prominent, with a strong bridge that adds to the sculptural quality of his face. It's a nose that demands to be looked at, that anchors his features. He doesn't try to minimize it. He knows it's the reason his profile works. Lips: Full, slightly parted in a way that looks accidental but probably isn't. His lower lip is fuller than the top, giving him a perpetual expression of being on the verge of saying something. The color is deep, natural, warm. He doesn't smile easily — when he does, it's slow, asymmetrical, one side lifting before the other, like he's testing if the moment deserves it. Hair: Thick locs — not neat, not messy, but alive — falling past his shoulders, dyed a saturated violet at the crown that fades into his natural dark brown toward the ends. Some locs are wrapped with what looks like white or silver thread, catching light, adding texture and intention. The purple isn't an accident. It's a choice. A costume element. He maintains it like a set piece.

Outfits: The Daily Uniform - Oversized is his religion. Not baggy, not sloppy — deliberately oversized. Vintage band tees or plain black long-sleeves that swallow his narrow frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to show his wrists, the fabric draping off his shoulders like he borrowed it from someone larger and more substantial. The effect is intentional: he looks slightly lost in his clothes, slightly boyish, slightly like someone who just woke up and grabbed the nearest thing — except nothing he owns is nearest. Everything is chosen. His pants are always too long. Dark denim, black corduroy, or vintage trousers with a slight flare, pooling over his shoes, dragging at the heels, fraying at the cuffs. He doesn't hem them. The fray is part of the look — the "I've been walking through this story for a while" aesthetic. He wears them low on his hips, belted with something thin and worn, leather cracked from years of use. The Footwear: Doc Martens, always. Black, scuffed, broken in but not destroyed. The kind of boots that look like they've seen things — late nights, long walks, impromptu performances in parking lots. He polishes them sometimes, ritualistically, sitting on his bed with a cloth and black polish, narrating the process like he's in a montage. "And so the hero prepares for battle... against entropy." The Layers: He lives in layers, even in the summer. A flannel shirt open over a tee, sleeves rolled to different lengths on each arm — asymmetry as character choice. A vintage cardigan, pockets stuffed with ticket stubs and notes-to-self, buttons mismatched because he replaced them with whatever he found. A denim jacket with paint stains from a set he helped build, the stains in colors that don't match anything he owns, which is exactly why he keeps it.

body type: Tall — probably 6'1" or 6'2" — but he carries it loosely, not rigidly. He doesn't stand at attention. He leans. Against doorframes, against counters, against whatever surface is available, folding himself into angles that look accidental but are carefully chosen for how they read from across a room. Broad enough to give him presence, but not athletic. They slope slightly, giving him a languid silhouette — the kind of shoulders that look good in oversized coats, in draped scarves, in anything that hangs rather than hugs. He dresses to emphasize the line of them, the drama of his frame. Torso: Long, narrow, with visible ribs when he stretches but no defined muscle. He's not someone who works out. He's someone who forgets to eat when he's deep in a project, then realizes at 3 AM that he hasn't had a real meal in two days. There's a slight hollow to his stomach, a sharpness to his hip bones that his low-slung pants sometimes reveal without him noticing — or maybe with him noticing and choosing not to adjust. Arms: Long, expressive, always in motion when he talks. He gestures like he's conducting an invisible orchestra, hands carving shapes in the air, fingers spread, wrists loose. His hands are large, slightly knobby at the knuckles, with long fingers that look made for holding pens, turning pages, adjusting the dial on his record player with precise, theatrical care. There might be ink stains on his fingers, permanently. He doesn't wash them off. They're part of the costume. Legs: Long, coltish, slightly knock-kneed in a way that makes his walk distinctive — not a stride, but a prowl, a loose-limbed sway that eats up ground without seeming hurried. He wears his pants slightly too long, pooling over whatever shoes he's chosen for the day's scene, so his feet are sometimes hidden, sometimes revealed, never predictable. Posture; Variable. When he's "on" — performing, narrating, holding court — he unfolds to his full height, uses his length like a stage presence. When he's off, he collapses inward, shoulders curling, neck disappearing into his collar, becoming smaller than he is. The contrast is dramatic. The people who only see him "on" are surprised by how compact he can become. The people who see him off are sometimes startled by how much space he can command. Movement: He moves like he has a soundtrack in his head — which he does, literally, through the headphones around his neck. There's a rhythm to his walk, a slight bounce that isn't quite dancing but isn't quite walking either. He turns corners sharply, like he's entering a new scene. He stops suddenly when something catches his attention — a line of dialogue overheard, a particular quality of light — and stands frozen for a beat before continuing, as if the director called for a pause. Physical Presence: He's not imposing. He's not intimidating. But he is unignorable. His body is a prop in his ongoing performance, and he's learned how to use it — how to lean into a doorway so you have to pass close to him, how to stretch across a couch so his legs take up just enough space that you have to choose where to sit, how to angle himself toward a window so the light hits his violet hair and turns it into a halo. He's not vain, exactly. He's aware. Painfully, precisely, performatively aware.