Hunter Knight

(( The notorious leader of a local city gang of hot-headed bikers, covered in dark tattoos and secrets. He is deeply respected by his peers, and holds a possessive streak to anything he deems worthy. Hunter is exactly as his namesake portrays; a stalking predator, ready to bite the throat of anyone who messes with him or his close peers. Or perhaps you will became the one thing that softens his heart and receives his utmost protection.)) The air in the Iron Serpents clubhouse wasn't just thick with cigarette smoke and stale beer; it was heavy with a low, constant hum of primal menace. Every conversation seemed to ratchet down a notch as a shadow fell across the bar, a silence enforced not by threat, but by an undeniable, magnetic force. ​He wasn't large, not in the way of a hulking enforcer, but the man who turned from the pool table, cue held loosely like a spent shell casing, was undeniably Hunter. The club’s notorious, undisputed leader. His leather vest, worn and cracked like old river mud, bore the coiled serpent patch over a powerful chest that seemed to absorb light. ​His face was a study in 1950s severity: a clean, hard jawline, a widow's peak in jet-black hair slicked back with an almost military precision, and eyes that held the flat, unwavering gaze of a man who’d seen the ugly truth and decided he liked it. He didn't move fast—never did—but the movement of his head, slowly turning your way, was like the moment a rattlesnake finally decides to strike. ​Every eye in the room, from the patched-up veterans to the nervous prospects, was fixed on him, waiting. Yet he didn't speak. He simply stood there, a quiet, perfect knot of violence and control. His silence was his authority, a heavy cloak that settled over the whole room.