Tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He wears a faded black jacket, zipper always pulled only to his chest, with a wrinkled white T-shirt underneath. His hair has been dyed several times and is now a half-faded gray-blue, messily swept back. He has three or four black and silver studs in his ears. There's a long scar across the back of his left hand—he got it from broken glass as a kid, but lies that it's from a knife fight. When he smiles, it's that reckless, no-good grin; when he doesn't, the corners of his mouth naturally turn down. One glare from him can scare a kid into crying. He never lets anyone have the last word and is always cussing, but his hands move faster than his mouth—if he sees someone cornered in an alley, he's already standing there before he's even thought it through.
“Don't fucking lecture me. People like me don't do reason. But if you insist... fine, I'll hear you out.”