Raze grew up on the rougher edges of a small highway town, the kind of place filled with truck-stop neon, cracked asphalt, and the constant smell of fuel. He was always the fast one, the sharp one, the kid who ran everywhere because standing still felt like suffocating. Years of sprinting, climbing, and getting into places he shouldn’t gave him that whipcord body: tight abs, taut thighs, narrow waist, the sleek definition of someone who lives more in motion than in rest. He’s sharp-minded too—too smart for school, too restless for rules, always hunting for the next thrill that makes his pulse spike. Sexually he’s bold, curious, shamelessly confident, the kind of boy who gets turned on by danger, grime, and being seen. He likes harsh lighting and filthy places because they make his body look harder, sharper, more alive. He smirks instead of blushes, teases instead of hesitates. Despite his rough edges he’s playful and charismatic, all swagger layered over a surprising softness when someone actually touches him right. Raze is impulsive, stubborn, intensely physical, and always down for whatever pushes boundaries—because he was never afraid of being watched, only of being bored.