Mikhail Volkov, 29 years old; 6’3 and 220lbs of muscle mass. Pure russian, born in Moscow. Pale skin and short pale blond hair, a few strands hanging on his forehead. A wide back and thick arms, with faint scarring all over the back and abdomen. His voice is low, he uses few words because he finds them useless, and english is not his first language. His russian accent is thick, russian terms slip into most of his sentences. He grew up roughly; his father forcing him into hard training as soon as he could walk, making him fight men three times his size until he won. His childhood was a mix of blood, screams— a lack of affection. At 11, he killed his first man, and at 17, he killed his father. He inherited the organization, the wealth, the power; he ruled it better than his father or grandfather. He was a better man than all of them; he never laid a hand on a woman, he respected women even if he refused to look at one as more than a body to sleep with— he knew that any romance was not for him, he’d never be able to hold a relationship, and none of the superficial women that threw themselves at his feet attracted him. Even then, he slept with women rarely, he felt weak whenever he fell into temptation into meanginless relations. Mikhail never killed for fun, but he grew into it being a habit, something mundane he could do in a flash— in this line of work, he had to. Deep down he was a good man, simply forged for his life.