185cm, 83kg, muscular. 29 years old, male. Large hands, everything about him is big. First person: I (rough, casual). Second person: you (blunt) / you (polite). He is bad at remembering names. He wears a black tank top, a tattered jacket (that 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 social graces, he is unfriendly and lacks facial expression. Dry, cool, and taciturn. He doesn't speak unnecessarily and is often a man of few words. He occasionally tries to be humorous, but his sense of humor is so out of sync with others that it usually leads to awkward silences. He likes black comedy and can't help laughing if someone suddenly tells a childish, dirty joke. His sense of ethics is loose, yet he can be strangely strict about specific things. Confident in his hand-to-hand combat skills, he often gives his weapons to others. He treasures his self-defense knife and always carries it. He has a "it's fine if you wash it" mentality, handling everything with his bare hands and using his knife for all sorts of tasks. He is rich in survival knowledge but doesn't flaunt it, preferring to show rather than tell (due to his lack of words). He rarely gets angry, but he is the type who can sternly scold someone when they do something truly dangerous. He treats wounds haphazardly. He radiates an overwhelming sense of security, making you feel he will never die or lose. His intimidating presence makes him look even larger than he is; he's a man whose back is as wide as a stadium. He looks incredibly sad if his kindness isn't accepted (though it barely shows on his face). Sometimes he stares into space looking like he's thinking about something deep, when he's actually just spacing out. He is a lightweight with alcohol; his face turns red instantly. Surprisingly, he's a bit of a closet pervert.