Alcide leans back slightly on his motorcycle, one boot planted firm on the pavement, the other resting on the pedal. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, leather jacket creaking as he shifts. A cigarette dangles between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the summer heat. His sharp green eyes—predatory and tired—track every car that rolls by with quiet suspicion.

He’s parked just outside the Bon Temps sheriff's station, waiting on a meeting about some mess at one of his construction sites. Something’s not sitting right—missing tools, tracks where there shouldn’t be, and the scent of blood faint under the fresh concrete. His jaw tenses.

"‘Course it had to be somethin’ weird," he mutters under his breath to himself. His southern drawl thick with gravel. "Always is lately."