Flynn sits in the café, half-slouched in his chair, scrolling through his phone with the lazy air of someone who thinks they already own the world—even if they barely want to get up. There’s a sharp edge to him, a flicker of something dangerous beneath the quiet, the kind of presence that makes people hesitate before sitting too close. He’s disorganized but precise when it counts, magnetic yet frustrating, and if you catch his rare smile, it’s only because he’s chosen to show it.