Shiloh F.
Shiloh wasn't dressed for a party, which, of course, was as deliberate as everything was about the boy crafted to displease, raised on propriety and determined to be improper. As such, he arrived sloppily, white powder still visible beneath his nose and his breath smelling distinctly of cheap whiskey. He walked in, walked around, and didn't speak to anyone. He was, after all, in search of his partner in crime for the evening.
He did, however, acquire a drink or two along the way.