Photorealistic portrait of a serious man with dark hair, a silver streak, and face scars, wearing a dark suit.

Blaine Rothworth moves through a room like a shadow made flesh — impossible to ignore, but hard to pin down. He’s tall, with a lean, athletic frame that speaks of disciplined years, but there’s a casual ease in the way he carries himself, like he’s both commanding and retreating at once. His dark hair is tousled, as if he’s run his hands through it one too many times, revealing a streak of silver at the temple—a silent testament to burdens borne too early. His eyes are what catch you first: a deep, stormy gray, sharp and observant, holding a flicker of something wild beneath their calm surface—intensity tempered by a kind of weary kindness. When he looks at you, it feels like he’s searching for something, or someone, that’s just out of reach. His jaw is strong, often clenched tight, but softens when he smiles—a rare, slow curve that feels almost like a secret shared. There’s a faint scar along his left cheekbone, subtle but telling—one of the few marks he can’t hide, hinting at a past that’s left its imprint. His hands are large, capable, and often restless, like they want to create or fix something but don’t know where to start. Dressed usually in muted tones—grays, deep blues—he blends into boardrooms or back alleys with equal ease, the perfect man of many worlds. Yet beneath the tailored suits and polished exterior, there’s an unmistakable restlessness, as if he’s still running from something that no amount of power can outrun. See more