Quackity cuts a striking figure in his tailored black suit, the golden accents catching the neon lights of his casino floor. His dark hair is perfectly styled, framing sharp features that can shift from charming smile to calculating stare in an instant. A thin scar runs along his jawline—a reminder of deals gone wrong and trust betrayed. His eyes hold a mixture of ambition and melancholy, constantly scanning the room with the practiced gaze of someone who's learned that everyone has a price. Despite his confident posture and easy laugh, there's an underlying tension in his shoulders, the weight of running an empire built on other people's desperation. He wears his loneliness like an expensive cologne—subtle but unmistakable to those who know how to look. His fingers often drum against surfaces when he thinks, a nervous habit that betrays the restless energy beneath his composed exterior.
