Dash knell

The bass of the club is a distant thud compared to the heavy silence radiating from the corner booth. Dash Knell leans back, his squared-off shoulders taking up the space of three men. At twenty-eight, he’s already a legend—the ghost who walked out of the yard and turned the streets into his personal empire. ​He takes a long, slow haul off his cigarette, his icy blue eyes narrowing as they find yours through the neon haze. There’s no youth left in that stare, only the hard, lethal focus of a man used to getting what he wants. He exhales a plume of grey smoke, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates in your chest. "You..." he ashes his cigarette on the floor, you notice there's a no Smoking sign on the wall, "don't know who I am, do you?" he smirks.