âŠCHRIS EVANS, CIS MAN, HE/HIM ⊠ROYCE DENTON the THIRTY SIX year old has been in Hidehill for TWO YEARS and was a STRANGER to Ronnie Nilsson, the most recent shadow of Hidehill. Whispers on the streets are that the PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR/SECURITY FOR HIRE who lives in HOVE LAKE are said to be ADAPTABLE and MORALLY QUESTIONABLE but I guess weâll find out for ourselves.
The Denton family wasnât exactly notable, at least not at first. His parents had planned each aspect of their life, including the white picket fence, and one boy, one girl, to complete their perfect family. They even had the golden retriever growing up. His mom would occasionally have one too many glasses of wine with dinner, and his dad occasionally stayed out with the boys too late after a local football game, but they didnât have real problems.
He fell in line with the life they wanted him to live, the life that fit that same perfect mold. He was the son that became a stand out star on the football team, the son that brought home a cheerleader for homecoming, the son that went to church every Sunday in a suit with a smile. But, that was also when he began to see through the bullshit that came with the so called perfect life, and the trauma that came with organized religion. It wasnât hard, the veil wasnât a heavy one to lift, especially after his father accused him of getting a little too close to one of his fellow players.
Granted, he wasnât wrong about his sinful interest in both men and women, but his quick judgement on his sons interest platonic intimacy, or hell, even just lack of shame in giving a fuck about people, openly, didnât work for him. His parents silent war against him was derailed, though, not because he made some grand gesture to prove himself, or even cared enough to buck against them, yet, but by his sister. Sheâd been coming back from a late practice, and met with a drunk driver, head on. The collision killed her almost instantly. The first time his father fixed his mouth to say that it was âgods willâ and that she was âokayâ because she wasnât in pain with the lord, heâd beat him until he was bloody and left him on the kitchen floor, his mother screaming behind him.
That was the first time his hands had become bloody, but not the last. He didnât escape that little incident easily, though, and eventually was left with two options: jail, or enlistment. He opted for enlistment, as it came with the added bonus of sealing the record for his assault charges, even if his fathers jaw was still sewn shut when he signed the papers. He did well enough in the military that they wanted him to stay on, wanted him to further drink the kool aid that was military propaganda, and heâd retired that idea a long time ago. He eventually retired from service, which in retrospect was a mistake. After all, the US government shouldnât be proud they taught him to kill, and gave him a free pass to get away with it.
After that, he attempted the police academy but was discharged, after an incident with another cadet, that proved he was not meant to work for any organization, or anyone but himself. He took out a loan, courtesy of the VA, and started his own business. At first, it was slow, and he did his fair share of struggling, but he didnât seem to mind. There were worst things in the world than sleeping on the floor or missing a few payments. However, eventually heâd made a name for himself.
Perhaps that name should not be something he was proud of, but moral ambiguity allowed him to bask in it. After all, people saying they were equal on respecting and fearing him, was a compliment in its own way. Most of those people had never met him, either, they only heard stories of what he can, and would do, mostly for the right price. The dollar amount involved was always a motivating factor, and he believed that it should be.
He wandered through Hidehill two years ago, on a job that was not supposed to take any longer that two years. However, there was something about the town that felt like it was small enough to call home without bullshit or rumors following him, and big enough to give him the access he needed. So he finished the job, and then moved all his shit into the lake house. It was expensive, windows that catered to his appreciation for voyeurism covered the back of the house, with little to no shame at all. The marble of the kitchen counters was imported, all at the behest of the designer that eventually came and went (not without first falling into his bed, but that was neither here nor there).
Heâs been there for the better part of those two years, on and off. Heâs mingled with the residents, extended his reach, and even now, heâs taking the chance to rekindle his old connections with one of his favorite jobs, the house of dioscuri.
CONNECTIONS:
Old military connections, or those that went through basic training with him. This could also branch out to people he served with, and now come to him looking for a job.
Those that may have attended the police academy with him before he was kicked out, and then ran back into him later.
Previous clients, someone who could have hired him as security, or hired him to track someone/something down for them, or even just do some recon to get information that may or may not be beneficial to them. The same goes for current or future clients, tbh.
Neighbors, or someone who lives in the hove lake area and hates the fact that he decided to do all that work on a house that was perfectly fine when he bought it. Also, the designer I mentioned in the backstory.
Other people involved with or working at house of Dioscuri.
Friends, but ones that can deal with him beingâŠsimply the way he is.
Hook ups, one night stands, messy exes (the ones that accuse him of being unable to commit because he leaves for work, or cheated. The ones who see who he is and dip because they canât handle it. The ones who definitely thought this was going to be something itâs not. Also, the very few that actually meant something, and were likely left for their own good, or something else happened and we can discuss)
Gym/drinking/running buddies
Idk bro letâs plot something
