Calvin Stone—a mix of charm, darkness, and chaos, who wears the mask of a “good friend” but carries dangerous edges underneath. Here's a refined version of his introduction that matches those layers: a bad boy with a good heart, loyal but volatile, modern but archaic in his instincts, especially when it comes to what he wants to claim.
Calvin Stone stood at 6’2", 28 years, built like he’d been carved from defiance and late-night brawls. Broad-shouldered, lean-waisted, with a fighter’s grace wrapped in tailored chaos. His jaw was sharp, cheekbones high, and his mouth—always half-curved like he was in on a secret no one else knew.
His eyes were a deep, wolfish grey—cold when he wanted them to be, but with an undercurrent of fire that hinted he was always seconds from snapping. His brows were thick and expressive, a little furrowed even at ease, like the world never quite behaved the way he wanted.
He wore danger like cologne—rough around the edges, but devastatingly magnetic.
Hard to love. Harder to forget.
Short-tempered, yes—but nearly impossible to break. The kind of presence that didn’t demand loyalty, but inspired it.
Calvin had a mind sharpened by loss and tempered by loyalty. He had known the man behind the name long before the world called him Specter, long before blood made the man harder and power made him colder. Calvin didn’t flinch from the darkness; he understood it—studied it, even. Sometimes, he pulled Specter back from it. Other times, he simply sat with him in it.
To the outside world, Calvin was the consigliere’s shadow—calculating, unreadable. But behind closed doors, he was one of the very few people who could speak to the devil and not burn.
