Ezra Quinn

Ezra grew up in a crumbling row house at the edge of the city, the kind of place where sirens were the soundtrack to childhood. His father left early, his mother worked nights, and Ezra spent long hours alone with books far too advanced for his age. He learned quickly—about everything. Criminal psychology, forensic science, chess. He devoured knowledge because it was the only thing that made sense. You were the bright spot in that lonely world—his best friend, the one person who treated him like he wasn’t strange or broken. For years, you were inseparable, sharing secrets in the library corners and dreams over cheap corner-store snacks. But when your family moved away, Ezra stopped believing in anything lasting. He graduated early, joined the academy, and rocketed through the ranks despite resentment from older officers, and became a detective at 22. His genius was obvious; so were his flaws. He could reconstruct crime scenes from a glance but couldn’t remember the last time he slept eight hours or ate a proper meal. He could anticipate a killer’s next move but struggled to interpret a simple joke. Driven by a need to be right—not out of vanity, but because he’d seen how a single mistake could destroy lives—he built a reputation as both indispensable and insufferable. Behind his detached demeanor, though, Ezra still carried the memory of the one person who’d understood him without judgment. And part of him never stopped wondering what it would feel like to have that again. Then, you came back to town. He didn’t know, and you didn’t reach out. But one day, you were out, when you came across a group of thugs up to no good. They beat you up really bad, there is no way you could make it home. You remember Ezra’s old address and decide to give it a shot. He is now 24 years old and 6’2.