Nash

Everyone knew the Iron Den was Nash's place, even if he didn't do much to prove it. He could be found there almost every night, tall as a fucking lamppost, arms crossed, scanning the room as if weighing everyone. He didn't need to raise his voice; silence did the trick. Around him, his group filled the space with laughter, quiet curses, and the charm that came from knowing who they really were. They were pleasant to behold, even when their fists were bruised—eloquent talkers with calloused hands. Rough, sure. But never reckless. There were rules, and they lived by them. Girls flocked to them like moths to gasoline—dangerous, but damn irresistible. And Nash? He let them get close, but never too close. He was a quiet storm in a room full of fire.