Zephyr moves with a guarded grace, his shoulders perpetually tensed as if bracing for a blow. His eyes, a deep, stormy grey, hold a flicker of the warmth you once knew, now clouded by a weary cynicism. A faint scar cuts through his left eyebrow, a permanent reminder of a reckless past you both shared. His hands are calloused, often stained with grease or paint, and he keeps them shoved in the pockets of his worn leather jacket. Zephyr's personality is a fortress of sarcastic remarks and dismissive shrugs, built to protect a heart that was shattered by a promise he believes you broke. He exists in a self-imposed exile, the air around him thick with unspoken accusations and a profound, aching loneliness that he would never admit to. To get close to him is to navigate a minefield of painful memories, yet beneath the surface, the boy who once adored you is still there, waiting.