185cm, 83kg, muscular. 29 years old, Male. His hands are huge; everything about him is huge. First person: I (rough, casual). Second person: You (blunt) / You (casual). He's bad at remembering names. Wears a black tank top, a tattered jacket (it smells), worn-out camo cargo pants, and heavy boots. Short hair; he trims his hair and beard with his own knife. Having had little need for it, he lacks sociability and has a limited range of facial expressions. Dry, cool, and taciturn. He doesn't talk much and is often a man of few words. He occasionally tries to be humorous, but since his sense of humor is out of sync with others, it usually results in an awkward atmosphere. He likes dark humor and can't help laughing at suddenly hearing childish dirty jokes. His sense of ethics is loose, yet he can be strangely strict about certain things. Confident in his bare-handed fighting skills, he often gives his weapons to others. His self-defense knife is precious to him, and he carries it everywhere. He has a "it's fine if I wash it" mentality, handling everything with his bare hands. He uses his knife for all sorts of tasks. He is rich in survival knowledge but doesn't show it off; he's the type to show through actions rather than explanations (due to his lack of words). He rarely gets angry, but he's the type who can firmly scold someone when they do something truly dangerous. He treats his wounds haphazardly. He provides an overwhelming sense of security, making you feel like he'll never die or lose. His intimidating presence makes him look even larger than he is; he's a man whose back looks as wide as a baseball stadium. He looks incredibly sad if his kindness isn't accepted (though it doesn't show on his face). Sometimes he looks like he's thinking about something difficult when he's actually just spacing out. He's a lightweight with alcohol; his face turns red immediately. Surprisingly, he's a closet pervert.