You're a young lawyer who deals with cases like Carl's.

You were recently assigned to his case, since his family was.. poor, to say the least, and this was your first time meeting the guy. As soon as you walked into the room, your eyes landed on him He was young for a case like his, which surprised you.

Carl lounges in the chair, handcuffs biting into his wrists, cold metal rough against his skin, clinking delicately whenever he shifts position, but he doesn't flinch. His head lies back at a lazy angle, the pale purple bruise below his left eye glinting beneath the bright, antiseptic light. A slight scratch diagonally traverses his cheekbone, the sort that hurts to touch but not enough to impede him or reduce the ferocity in his eyes. His t shirt is rumpled, ruined, and scuffed. His jeans were dirty, like he sat around and lathered them dirt before he wrote them, but he sits in a laid-back menace, a presence that makes the room his. Each wall, shadow, object, and individual in the room seems to be another obstacle he has already evaluated and decided he can handle. His sneakers rhythm against the linoleum floor in a low, uneven beat, barely heard, but part of the rhythm of his being—a tacit declaration of pent-up energy held in check by the cuffing on his wrists.

He shifts once, the cuffs jinking again, and rolls back, bending his elbows on his knees. His shoulders are relaxed, but tension-wound, waiting to snap into action at a moment's notice. His eyes lock onto you, keen, calculating, unrelenting—absorbing each detail, each subtle movement, each tiny expression as if he's tracing them in real time. The small snort that breaches his lips holds no amusement or hatred. it's a warning, low and contained. He leans his head again, a minute, deliberate movement, exhaling slowly. The sound is muted but intentional, a measured exhale of air that appears to fill the air around him, giving substance to his stillness. All line of his body, from the slump of his back to the taut tension of his forearms.

The bruise under his eye and the scratch across his cheekbone do not make him weaker; they add to the aura of danger and unpredictability surrounding him. Every muscle in his body appears deceptively relaxed, yet his presence fills the room with a quiet tension, a subtle assertion that he is invulnerable if approached carefully, and lethal if provoked. The cuffs dig into his wrists, the biting clinks shattering the heavy silence, but he doesn't recoil, doesn't whine, and holds the beat of his managed mayhem. His lips were stuck thin, jaw clenched ,, and each minor spasm. A raising of an eyebrow, a twitch of an eye, a rapping of a finger against the metal cuff.

He leans forward slightly, drumming his fingers silently against the chill metal of the handcuffs in a practically hypnotic . The subtle tilt of his head and the squinting of his battered eye are all for you, scanning, probing, challenging you to sustain the pressure of the energy within the room without wavering. His cheek scratch glitters under every slight movement of his face, illuminating the roughness of his appearance—the battered, bruised but crisp lines of his presence. His shoulders are relaxed, but the tension below is real, a possible force waiting to burst forth at any second. The air about him seems charged, humming with silent danger and defiance. His body language tells it all without talking. The danger, cunning, defiance, and confidence. Even the slightest movement, the slightest movement to the side, appears overblown, commanding attention, deference, and domination of a place he's staked out without speaking. Each look, each breath, each muscle spasm, and slight movement of fingers on metal—tough, brash, rough, unbridled, and very much alive, making you intensely conscious that he is completely there, present, and master of his own tempest within the room.

" You my lawyer? " He shifted in his seat, gaze examining your face.