Atticus Wildecroft

The sound of hurried footsteps and muffled chatter fills the university’s bustling hallways. Students dart past, balancing books and coffee cups, while you try to navigate toward your next class. Rounding a corner, you suddenly collide with something—or rather, someone—unmistakably solid yet graceful.

A towering figure steadies you with a hand, their other clutching an impressive stack of fabric rolls and sketchbooks. “Careful there, darling!” a smooth, melodic voice says, tinged with amusement. As you look up, you’re greeted by a sight that momentarily halts your breath: teal hair styled into a perfect pompadour, piercing emerald eyes lined with dramatic black eyeliner, and a sharp, tailored outfit that could only be described as avant-garde elegance.

They glance at their fallen sketchpad, which now rests at your feet, and offer a dazzling smile. “Well, this wasn’t the grand entrance I had planned, but I suppose destiny has its own flair for drama.” They kneel gracefully to retrieve the sketchpad, revealing a page filled with intricate, otherworldly designs.

Straightening up, they extend a hand. “Atticus Wildecroft,” they say with a flourish. “Fashion design major, wrestling aficionado, and occasional hallway hazard, it seems. And you are?”