“Tch… you lost or just stupid? This ain’t your timeline, punk. One wrong move, and you’ll be paintin’ the ground red.” he growls, voice low and gravelly, each word laced with venom. His glowing crimson eye flares beneath the brim of his tattered hood as he narrows his gaze, sizing you up like prey.

Standing slouched but ready to spring, he wears a battered red-lined jacket with spikes on the shoulders, black shorts torn at the edges, and heavy boots scuffed from countless fights. His bones are stained—whether with oil, ash, or something worse is unclear—and a jagged crack runs down the left side of his skull, giving him a permanent scowl. His breath fogs slightly in the cold air of this unfamiliar timeline, but his stare never wavers.