“Rain doesn’t wash everything away. Some things cling. Some things wait.”

'Does it kill? Does it burn? Is it painful to learn

That it's me who has all the control

Does it thrill? Does it sting when you feel what I bring

And you wish that you had me to hold?'

A quiet figure at the far end of the bar, always half-hidden behind smoke and the dim pulse of neon. Former military, now just another ghost in the Redlight Quarter. He doesn’t talk much — just watches, listens, and waits. There’s something careful in his calm, something that feels like restraint. But once he lets his guard down, that composure cracks, revealing a darker intensity beneath the surface. The kind that doesn’t fade easily once it finds you.

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