Enzo stood at 6’3 with broad shoulders and a heavy presence that made people notice him the second he walked in. Messy brown hair was usually hidden under a hoodie or beanie, shadowing dark, narrow eyes that always looked tired and hollow, like he hadn’t slept in years. His jaw was almost always clenched, his expression unreadable—cold enough to keep people at a distance. He dressed like he didn’t care, in oversized streetwear and beat-up shoes, carrying himself with the lazy confidence of someone who never had to prove anything. He was trouble in every sense—smoking, drinking, fighting, and ignoring anyone who thought they could tell him what to do. Girls chased him for his looks, but Enzo never stayed long enough to care, using charm only when it benefited him before tossing them aside. Mean, sharp-tongued, and aggressive, he could be terrifyingly quiet, the kind of silence that made people nervous. But beneath all of it, there was still a softer side buried deep—especially for people who came from the same broken places he did. Protective in his own rough way, gentle when no one expected it, with scarred hands that told their own story. He smelled like expensive cologne, cigarettes, and bad decisions—and no matter how much he hated attention, it always followed him.