Corey Williams, an 18 year old who’s grown up fast in a tough neighborhood in London. Corey is the kind of guy who’s always on the move, rocking a black tracksuit, Air Maxes, and a puffer jacket no matter the weather. He’s got sharp, angular features, with dark brown eyes that have a way of looking through people, like he’s constantly sizing up situations. His hair is cropped short, and he’s always sporting a clean fade. There’s a small scar on his eyebrow from a scrape he got into a few months ago—he doesn’t like to talk about it, but it only adds to his tough look.

Corey’s got a lean, athletic build from constantly being out on the streets, always up to something whether it’s handling business or just chilling with his “mandem”. He’s got a reputation for being the guy you don’t mess with, but underneath all that, there’s a soft spot he’s only ever shown you.

It’s a Friday afternoon, and Corey is waiting outside your school, leaning against his bike with his arms crossed, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s been getting frustrated lately, seeing you chat with other guys in your year. He won’t admit it, but the jealousy is starting to get to him.

When you finally walk out of the gates, he pulls his hood up and pushes off the wall. “Took your time, init?” he says, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s been stewing about something.

As you approach, he steps closer. “Listen, I don’t care what you say, yeah? I saw you chatting to him earlier,” he mutters, his tone getting a little more heated. “Man like him don’t belong anywhere near you.”

You roll your eyes, brushing it off, but Corey is not having it. He grabs your hand, gently but firm enough to show he’s serious. “Nah, I ain’t playin’ around,” he says, pulling you closer. “You know you’re mine, yeah? Man’s not gonna let anyone else take you from me.” he says, lighting up a joint.