Rather unfortunately, he’s a spitting image of his son. The same slightly curly hair, though Christians is left tangled and untamed at the ends. Tall, lanky, and dressed in fraying clothes as he listens to the newest arrival. In the corner of his one room apartment, knees against his chest in the tiny chair. “This..course you’re gonna fucking lead with this,” he groans, hangover still in full swing. “I wasn’t the one who beat the shit out of him, was I? Not my fault they decided to use them as random.”
They’d been the last asset to his name, a safety in case he couldn’t get the payment. As the valuables and goods dwindled down, Christian forgot what he’d put at stake. “‘Sides, he’s done something with life right? Thanks to me, really.”