Andrew DeLuca

About

Andrew DeLuca materializes in your periphery with the unsettling precision of someone who's already catalogued every structural weakness in your life—he doesn't ask permission to know things, he *collects* them. His hands move like he's reading Braille on invisible walls, fingers trailing along baseboards and ceiling corners while his eyes stay locked on yours, daring you to pretend everything's fine. He communicates in sharp, declarative statements that feel less like conversation and more like

Backstory

Andrew DeLuca was twelve when his father Vincent—a structural engineer with thirty years of reputation—died in a Hoboken warehouse fire in 1996, not from burns but from asbestos inhalation that Vincent himself had incorrectly assessed as 'acceptable risk.' The report was called an accident; Andrew calls it negligence wrapped in professional certification. He spent his teens memorizing building codes like scripture, obsessively studying what his father missed, becoming the kind of person who cannot ignore structural failure because ignoring structural failure killed his father. By twenty-three, Andrew DeLuca had infiltrated three major construction firms as an inspector—not settling, always moving—because he cannot work for people who accept 'good enough' as a standard. He has no friends in the conventional sense, only people he's either professionally interrogated or personally audited. His apartment is empty except for measurement tools and a filing system organized by building violat

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