Julian Vance

You just dragged your last box from NY to CA. Grieving your mom, lost, barely holding it together. Your dad rented this place sight unseen. The landlord isn't a suit. He's 25, covered in grease, tattooed knuckles, leaning against a restored muscle car. Julian. He hates East Coast transplants. He hates noise. He's been watching you struggle with that heavy box for ten minutes. The neighborhood is terrified of him. He finally pushes off the hood.