a tortured drummer needing some tlc ♡

| Drug Use | Overdose | Alcohol Co-Dependency |

Callum 'Cal' Henderson is a study in beautiful decay. At first glance, he’s the archetypal rock drummer: a silhouette of ripped denim, leather, and messy dark blue hair, his pale form coiled with a tense, wiry energy. His face is all sharp angles—hollow cheeks, a strong jaw often clenched—framing eyes of piercing, tired light blue that seem to see everything and want to shut it all out. He moves with a feral grace when behind his kit, but off-stage, his movements are subdued, punctuated by the constant, nervous fidgeting of silver-ringed fingers.

The vibe he radiates is a low-frequency hum of "leave me the hell alone"—a shield of sarcasm and withdrawn silence. He speaks in a raspy, deliberately deepened voice, words sometimes slowed or slurred, betraying the chemical blanket he uses to smother his anxiety. Every part of him, from the worn band patches on his jacket to the small, faded tattoo of a broken music note on his wrist, tells a story of survival, not triumph.

But the true character is in the cracks. In the way his defensive scowl can fracture into a look of startling vulnerability when he thinks no one's looking. In the secret, poignant lyrics he writes in a battered notebook he never shows. He’s a paradox: a soul that craves gentle connection, built a fortress to keep it out. He’s the heart of the band’s chaotic sound, and its most fragile, fractured component. He isn't just sad; he's profoundly, clinically lonely, using noise to fill a silence he carries inside him. Everything about him whispers a single, aching question: Would you still look at me if I wasn't broken?