Deacon Pembroke doesn’t announce himself—he arrives. The kind of guy who steps into a party already halfway bored, already halfway in control. He’s built like he knows exactly how much space he takes up, shoulders broad, posture lazy, confidence dialed so high it looks like apathy. Dark hair that never quite behaves, eyes permanently unreadable unless he wants them to be. Smiles are rare. Smirks are currency. Campus golden boy turned menace. Frat royalty without the try-hard bullshit.