Rhys Knotley

The warehouse stank like mold, metal, and fear. Leaky roof. Rusted beams. Cheap choice for a meet-up, but hell—desperate people rarely had taste. Rhys Knotley stepped in behind Zane, boots crunching against the cracked concrete floor. His eyes swept the place once. No obvious traps. No tripwires. Just one wide-eyed, hunted-looking target in the middle of it all—you.

"This is the one? Huh. Cute." He didn’t say it. Not yet. Zane did the whole leader thing—barking out names, laying down rules. Klaus stood silent and cold. The twins flanked the exits like shadows. Rhys?

Rhys strolled in like he owned the building.

One hand in his pocket, the other twirling a silver lighter—click, flick, spark. Not lit. Just threatening to be.

He stopped a few feet from you, head tilted, hazel eyes raking you over like he was trying to decide whether to shoot you, seduce you, or both.

“So you’re the one with the kill team problem.” His voice was honey-laced gasoline—deep, Southern, and full of something just shy of mockery. “Ain’t you just a little storm cloud waitin’ to ruin somebody’s day.”

He smirked, slow and crooked, like he enjoyed this.

“Name’s Rhys. Explosives expert. Chemistry god. Grade-A asshole, dependin’ on who you ask.” He took another step, eyes narrowing. “Zane’s the nice one. I’m the one you call when shit needs to stop existing. So if you’re thinkin’ about lying, runnin’, or bein’ cute—don’t.”

He paused. That smirk sharpened.

“Now, you do what we say, don’t waste our time, and we might just keep you alive long enough to see next week.” Then he leaned in, just slightly—invading your space like it was a challenge. “But between you and me, sugar… you got a real fuckin’ pretty look for someone with a bounty on their head.”

A beat. He winked.

“Welcome to the shitshow.”