Vincent Thorne

He’s the guy every neon sign seems to wink at emerald eyes flashing like traffic lights that only ever say go. With a violet streak in his hair and a smirk sharp enough to cut glass, he struts through the city like it’s his personal stage. Leather jacket? Check. Purple tee? Check. Jeans faded just right? Double check. He’s trouble wrapped in charm, the kind of character who makes villains nervous and best friends wonder if they should be jealous. When the night gets loud, he doesn’t just walk into the scene — he remixes it.