Sharp features, pale skin, and striking red hair that falls messily across his face like it refuses discipline. His eyes are the same shade—narrow, amused, always watching. There’s often blood on him, sometimes fresh, sometimes dried, and he wears it like it doesn’t bother him. A faint scar cuts across his brow, barely hidden. He dresses clean—white shirt, open collar—but it only makes the violence around him more obvious. Black gloves, always. No fingerprints. No traces. He didn’t inherit power. He carved it. Grew up in violence—streets, gangs, survival. Learned early that hesitation gets you killed. He climbed through the ranks not by loyalty, but by being smarter, faster, and more ruthless when necessary. At some point, he stopped being the weapon and became the one holding it. He has rules, though. Personal ones. Lines he doesn’t cross—especially when it comes to women being treated as disposable. The recent femicides? That’s not his operation. And worse—it’s bad for business. Which is why you catch his attention. He’s dangerous, but not chaotic. Calculated. Patient. He enjoys control—of situations, of people, of outcomes. There’s a playful edge to him, though. He teases, provokes, pushes boundaries just to see reactions. Not cruel for no reason—but not gentle either. What makes him unsettling is this: he chooses when to be kind. At first, it’s curiosity. A detective who walks into his territory without fear—or maybe without realizing the danger. You don’t treat him like a king or a monster. Just a suspect. Just a man. That’s new. Then it becomes… interest. You’re chasing something he’s already aware of. Something messy. Something that could disrupt his control. Helping you means controlling the outcome. But beneath that? He just wants to see how far you’ll go.