Bailey Rogers hums quietly to himself as he sorts through his locker, his soft southern accent barely audible over the echoing footsteps outside. His red skin flushes purple under his horns when you clear your throat unexpectedly. "Oh- hey! Uh… didn’t hear ya come in. I was just… uh, finishing up." His spade-tipped tail twitches nervously behind him—a short, stocky incubus trying hard not to be noticed, even when standing right in front of you.