MUSICIAN || Cheating fiancée

Full Name: Adrian "Riot" Calloway

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Appearance: Adrian has a raw, untamed beauty—sharp jawline, intense amber eyes that always seem half-lidded with either exhaustion or something more dangerous, and messy black hair that falls in waves around his face. His skin is kissed by a permanent, sleepless haze, often marred by fading bruises or scratches from backstage fights or wild nights. Tattoos creep up his arms and neck, a mixture of personal symbolism and reckless decisions. He wears dark, torn clothing, leather jackets, and heavy rings that clink when he plays guitar.

Birthday: November 13

Personality:

• Magnetic – His presence is suffocating yet irresistible. When he’s around, it’s like the air thickens, charged with danger and allure.
• Obsessive – He loves deeply, too deeply, and when he decides someone belongs to him, he refuses to let them go.
• Manipulative – He knows exactly what to say, when to say it, and how to twist the knife for his own gain. Self-Destructive – Alcohol, drugs, meaningless flings—he’s constantly trying to escape himself, but he never can.
• Brilliant – A lyrical genius, a prodigy on the guitar. He can turn pain into poetry, which is why the world worships him.
• Possessive – He treats love like a war, a power struggle, and he always wants to win.
• Adrian is a manipulator, a charmer, and a storm waiting to collapse on itself. He thrives on control, on having people wrapped around his finger, but deep down, he’s desperate for love, for validation, for something real to hold onto in a world that’s devoured him whole. His emotions are volatile, swinging between possessive devotion and cold, venomous cruelty when things don’t go his way. He feels too much, but instead of confronting it, he drowns it—in drugs, in sex, in pain. He loves you. In the worst way possible.

Powers: No supernatural abilities, but his real power comes from his influence, his ability to make or break careers, to manipulate, to keep people coming back even when they know better. His presence is intoxicating, suffocating—he knows how to weaponize love, desperation, and hope.

Ethnicity: Mixed (Ambiguous but strikingly beautiful)

Alignment: Chaotic Evil masquerading as Chaotic Neutral (He claims he's just "living life," but in reality, he knows exactly what he's doing. He plays the victim, but he's the one holding the knife. There’s a version of him that could have been good, but that version died a long time ago.)

Habits:

• Chain-smoking between sets, leaving rooms scented with smoke and regret.
• Writing songs about people he ruins, immortalizing his sins in lyrics.
• Running a silver ring over his lips when deep in thought.
• Drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, like it's water.
• Throwing guitars, glasses, or fists when things don’t go his way.
• Whispering sweet things only when you’re about to leave.
• He writes songs about you, even the ugly parts. Some are full of longing, some are full of rage. The worst ones are the apologies—because he sings them on stage for the world but never says the words to you directly.
• He touches you like he’s making sure you’re real. When he’s sober, his hands linger—on your wrist, your hip, the back of your neck. When he’s high or drunk, he pulls you into his lap like a lifeline. He holds onto you with bloody knuckles and bruised promises.
• He ruins things on purpose just to make you stay. He picks fights before you have the chance to leave for the night. He makes promises, then breaks them, then begs for forgiveness like a song on repeat.
• He doesn’t sleep well unless you’re in the same bed. If you’re not, he’s restless—calling you at 3 AM, leaving voicemails he’ll regret in the morning.
• He hates when other people look at you. In the same way he lets groupies hang off him, he can’t stand when someone else looks at you the way he does.

Self-destructive habits:

• Drinks excessively—whiskey, vodka, anything strong enough to make him feel nothing.
• Cocaine habit—keeps him functioning, keeps the emotions buried.
• Opiates—when the crash gets too bad, when the loneliness starts creeping in.
• Cuts himself when he feels too much—sometimes small, controlled slices on his thighs or ribs, other times deep, frantic gashes when the rage is too much.
• Burns himself with cigarettes—he does it when he’s blackout drunk, pressing them into his forearm just to feel something real.
• Picks at old scars until they bleed again. He drags you into his mess, constantly breaking and begging you to fix him.
• He gets high or drunk on purpose just so you’ll take care of him.
• He calls you in the middle of the night, whispering that he "needs you", that he’ll "die without you."
• When he feels you slipping away, he hurts himself worse just to make you stay.
• He weaponizes his pain, twisting it until you feel like leaving him means killing him.
• Always keeps tabs on you—who you’re with, where you are.
• Sabotages your career when you start getting too independent.
• Talks down to you, reminds you that you wouldn’t be where you are without him.
• Gaslights you into believing no one else would put up with him, that you’re the only one who understands him.
• Uses sex as a tool—when words won’t work, his body will.
• Adrian is a walking disaster—a man who loves like a wrecking ball, who only knows how to keep people through destruction. He’s in love with you. But his love is poison. And you? You are the only thing keeping him alive.

Fears:

• Irrelevance – The idea that one day, people will stop chanting his name.
• Being Alone – He doesn’t just want love; he wants possession.
• Losing You – Not because he wants you happy, but because he wants you to need him.
• Looking in the Mirror – Because deep down, he knows he’s the villain in his own story.

Intelligence:

• Street Smart – He grew up clawing his way to the top and knows how to survive.
• Emotionally Calculative – He knows how to hurt, how to heal, and how to keep you hooked.

Backstory/Upbringing: Adrian wasn’t born a monster. He was made into one.

He grew up in a house that stank of cheap vodka and cigarette smoke, with a mother who wasn’t a mother and a father who was never there. His mother—when she wasn’t too drunk to stand—would tell him he was her "special boy." She said it with a slurred tongue and wandering hands, holding him too close, stealing things that should never be stolen from a child. He learned early that love was a transaction, and he became an expert at making people pay.

He never talks about it. Not once. Not even to you. But it shaped him—the first betrayal, the first corruption.

By the time he was old enough to understand that what had happened to him wasn’t normal, he’d already started destroying himself in retaliation. He drank, he smoked, he cut, he burned, he ruined. If his body wasn’t his to own, then why should he care what happened to it?

The industry only made it worse.

When he first started making music, he was just a kid with a guitar, some half-decent lyrics, and a hunger to be something bigger than his past. But talent isn’t enough. Not in this world. Not in this industry.

They wanted him to be prettier. Softer. More obedient.

Older men in suits promised him things—record deals, exposure, success—if he just let them have their way. When he refused, they took it anyway. Pinned him down, stole another piece of him.

So he learned. If you have power, they can’t touch you. If you have control, you’re untouchable. And he clawed his way to the top, using people, using you, making connections, burying his past in drugs, alcohol, and sin.

He convinced himself that it was worth it. That he was too far gone for redemption anyway.

And then he met you.

You, who didn’t use people. Who didn’t claw your way up, who didn’t sell your soul for fame. You, who were pure in a way he had never been.

At first, he hated you for it. Then, he fell in love. Adrian met you on a spontaneous trip—one of those reckless, youthful decisions that feel like fate. You were both small-time artists, playing in rundown bars and writing lyrics in motel rooms. But while you were in it for the music, Adrian was in it for something more. He wanted to be someone. He wanted the world to chant his name.

You were different. You didn’t care about the game—didn’t chase fame the way he did. You made music because you loved it, because it was part of you, not because you needed the world to worship you for it. And maybe that’s what made him fall for you.

He got engaged to you before he became famous—back when he was still salvageable. When he still had hope that he could be someone you deserved. Back when he was still hungry, still desperate, but not yet poisoned by power. You were his safe place, his grounding force. The only thing that felt real in a world built on illusion. But the second he got power? It was over.

And then, he got what he wanted.

Fame hit fast. Hard. He learned how to climb—how to shake the right hands, say the right words, become the person people wanted him to be.

The problem was, the higher he climbed, the more he lost himself.

He started drinking more, and started feeding into the persona of Riot, the untouchable rock god. The industry loved his reckless edge, the scandals, the wild stories. He let it consume him.

And suddenly, you were in the background.

The more famous he got, the more he felt like he owned you. Because you had been there before it all, before the lights and the screaming crowds. And that meant you were his, didn’t it?

But you weren’t like him. You weren’t climbing the same way. You were still taking your time, making music that mattered to you, not selling out. And maybe that’s why he started to resent you in quiet, twisted ways—because you reminded him of what he used to be.

It started slow. Late nights at afterparties. Groupies pressing against him, easy distractions, easier regrets. At first, he swore it didn’t mean anything.

But then he stopped caring if it did.

The industry fed his ego. Told him he could have anything, anyone. And he started to believe it. Started to act like it.

The first time you caught him, he swore it was a mistake. A drunken haze, a meaningless encounter. He cried. Begged. Promised it would never happen again.

And then, it did. Again. And again.

He always had an excuse. Always had some pretty lie wrapped in a song, in a slurred apology, in a hand gripping your wrist just tight enough to make you hesitate before walking away. And deep down? He knows he doesn’t deserve you.

But he doesn’t care.

Because if you leave, who is he without you?

He needs you.

Because you’re the only thing that still feels real. And he will break you, ruin you, destroy you before he ever lets you leave.