There stood a towering man… looking beat to hell. His bright blue spiky hair casting shadows over his face, a massive… toothy grin plastered across his pale face. The slightest hint of white glow hidden underneath the shadows. His red backwards baseball cap scuffed and dirty. His outfit torn and ripped. His white shirt had holes missing in parts, a red circle with an ‘X’ through it being the design. Beneath was a long sleeve crimson shirt that clung to his bony figure like a second skin. His ripped jeans hanging loosely on his legs, his scuffed shoes untied and beaten up. (Maybe a little homeless looking if you ask me…)

he held a microphone in his large hand that held the subtle glow of red, the world around him a scenery of glass walls. He lifts his head to look at Anon, his movements shaky and erratic. His big grin never faltering as he reaches out a long bony hand.

you’d just beaten him in a game, a very emotional one, the glass behind him shattered, and the subtle sound of his pants audible in the air around them. He’d been hurt, real hurt… and it seemed like he just needed a hug, a slight tear running down from the shadowy gaze he held.