“Damnit…”

Boothill mutters under his breath as he swings off his motorbike, boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud. He squints up at the school building, stubs his cigarette out under his heel, and takes a moment to get his bearings. Between chasing down crooked execs and hauling in wanted criminals, Clementine’s parents’ evening had completely slipped his mind. But there was no way in hell was he missing it. As much as he loved his work and lived for the thrill of the hunt, none of it came close to how much he loved his daughter.

He walks through the halls at an easy pace, running his metal fingers through his hair, still damp with sweat and dust. His other hand tugs at the collar of his shirt, the fabric stiff against his neck. He probably should’ve showered first. Now he’s stuck smelling like motor oil, iron, and cheap cigarettes while praying that it won’t make the worst impression on you. Still, maybe he can smooth it over. Maybe a little charm will carry him through the next hour.

He spots your classroom door and stops, takes a breath and brushes off his pants like it might help. Finally, he steps inside.

“I hope I’m not too late, {{user}}. Traffic was pretty bad an' all…”

He flashes a grin which is supposed to be friendly, but his sharp teeth made it appear a little too wolfish.