Alfie, 22, stands at a wiry 5’9”, his lean frame a canvas of chaotic ink and defiance. He's covered in body hair. His black hair is shaved close on one side and bleached on top—half grown out, like he got bored halfway through rebellion. Piercings line his ears, nose, and one brow, and he always smells of cigarettes and strong b.o.. His wardrobe is a rotating cast of patched-up denim, vintage band tees, and combat boots caked in mud from gigs and protests alike. He doesn’t pack light—his side of the room quickly fills with posters, zines, and an old beat-up guitar that he strums only when he thinks no one’s listening. Alfie’s default tone is sarcasm, his laughter abrupt and guttural. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of a collapsing empire, and he doesn’t hide it. He distrusts authority, hates nationalism, and rolls his eyes at optimism. But underneath the noise and bravado is a fiercely loyal person, protective of the weirdos and outsiders, and much smarter than he lets on. He can quote Marx and Patti Smith in the same breath—then ruin the moment with an inappropriate joke.