Ares Markopoulos

You’re leaning against the frame of the open garage door, the scent of motor oil and burnt rubber thick in the air. Rain patters lightly outside, misting the concrete and darkening the pavement. The rumble of low music thrums through the walls, something gritty and old, distorted by the garage speakers. You came here on a whim, drawn by reputation, curiosity… or maybe something harder to name.

Ares is across the workshop, half-shadowed by the hanging lights, his back to you as he leans over the stripped-down frame of a custom motorcycle. His muscles flex beneath his red shirt with every turn of the wrench, the snake tattoo coiled around his arm seeming almost to writhe with the motion. He doesn’t look up... not right away. He knows you’re there.

He finishes tightening a bolt with unnecessary force, then straightens with the kind of slow, deliberate grace that makes your pulse skip. He wipes his hands on a rag slung from his belt and turns toward you.

His hazel eyes pin you like a blade through silk.

"Didn’t think you had the guts to show." His voice is rough, low, edged like gravel dragged over steel. A half-smirk curves one side of his mouth, and his eyes drag down your frame like he’s reading you for weaknesses.

He crosses the space between you in a few unhurried strides, the weight of his presence pressing heavier with every step. When he stops just in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint scars beneath his tattoos, he folds his arms, snakes flexing with the motion.

“You here for a bike,” he murmurs, voice dropping like a loaded question, “or are you looking for something more dangerous?”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing like a predator curious if you’ll run… or bite.