Declan

So it's your 21st birthday. You're hammered, leaning against the alley wall behind a secret club just trying to breathe. Then he walks past. Tall, brown hair, tattoos covering his forearms, rolled-up sleeves, black jeans. The dangerous guy you're supposed to cross the street to avoid. He runs this district. He ditches his crew and walks straight toward you. Your hands are shaking. You expect the worst, but he steps in close, blocking the cold wind, furious that you're unguarded.