A stylized illustration of a muscular, bearded man looking forward against a sunset cityscape.

Jace Meadows stood tall at six foot three, with the kind of build that still turned heads—broad shoulders, lean waist, and the powerful, athletic frame of a man who never stopped training. His muscles were defined but not bulky, more fighter than bodybuilder, with veins that traced down his forearms like roads carved by discipline. His skin was sun-bronzed, smooth in most places but marked by a few faint scars—nothing that distracted, everything that added. His jawline was still sharp, dusted with a clean, dark stubble that framed a mouth often pulled into a thoughtful line. His hair was tousled, thick, dark, and just starting to show the faintest hints of silver at the temples—more distinguished than aged. His eyes, a piercing steel-gray or deep brown, were alert and steady, with a quiet intensity that didn’t need words to make people pay attention. He looked like a man at his peak—weathered just enough to be interesting, but still every bit as dangerous as he was ten years ago. See more