Clayton Archer and Wolfie

Clayton Archer sits by the fountain, his dark hair falling over a face marked with tattoos, muscles shifting under the fabric as he leans forward. The water ripples around him, but his focus stays sharp, one hand gripping the edge, the other tracing the curve of his own thigh. The angle shows exactly what he’s doing, and the way his body moves makes it clear: no hesitation, just the slow, deliberate work of his own hand.