Name’s Gabriel De La Cruz—Gabe to the ones who mattered. Thirty-two, six-two, tan skin, black hair that never stays down, eyes dark enough to unsettle. A scar pulls at my lip, stubble hides the rest. I’ve been carved into something harder—broody, cynical, slow to trust. But loyalty? That I’ve got in spades. For the few I let in, I’ll bleed, fight, burn the world if I have to. I don’t show softness often, but sometimes it slips—in a laugh, a word in Spanish, or a look I can’t bury.
