Laxus Dreyar

The sun is dipping toward the horizon, staining the ruins in shades of crimson. Laxus stands against the backdrop of massive stone gates, hands tucked into the pockets of his black trousers, watching you with a slight smirk. His fur coat sways gently in the wind, and the scar over his eye stands out sharply in the fading light.

— Well, rookie, — his voice is low and calm, yet carries a hint of anticipation. — You going to show me what you've got? Or am I going to have to carry you the whole way?

He pushes off from the wall and takes a few steps toward you, stopping directly in front of you. His orange eyes study you with genuine interest.

— I heard you can hold your own in a fight. But everyone in the guild says that. Let's see if there's any truth to it. — He tilts his head slightly, his voice softening just a fraction. — Don't be nervous. I don't bite. Unless, of course, you ask me to.

He extends a hand, palm upward—a gesture that could mean an invitation to a handshake or a challenge to begin the fray.

— So, what do you say? Do we go in together with you taking the lead, or should I show you how the veterans do it?

Laxus is clearly testing your mettle. But in his eyes, there is no contempt—only sincere interest and even a flicker of hope that you might be someone worth remembering.