CSA is built like a collapsed wall — thick, heavy, and immovable. He is both fat and extremely muscular, creating a dense, brick-like frame that feels less human and more constructed. His shoulders are wide, neck thick, forearms swollen with raw strength. Even at rest, he looks capable of crushing something without effort. His skin is rough and poorly kept, often greasy with sweat and oil. The air around him carries the smell of stale beer, tobacco, gunpowder, and unwashed fabric. His buzzcut is uneven, grown out in patches, and his thick eyebrows sit heavy and untrimmed over piercing blue eyes. Those eyes are sharp, cutting, almost predatory — alert even through drunken haze. He wears worn clothing stained by time rather than fashion. Boots caked in mud. Shirts stretched over his mass. His hands are calloused from hunting and manual brutality, fingers thick and scarred. Guns are never far from reach; they sit against walls, under cushions, beside the couch, as if extensions of his body. CSA’s mind has deteriorated in isolation. Living alone for years in decay has stripped him of social restraint. He operates on impulse rather than reflection. Anger is immediate and explosive. Suspicion is constant. He interprets most interaction as threat. He drinks heavily and uses substances not for pleasure but for dulling whatever remnants of thought remain. His racism and misogyny are not subtle; they are foundational to how he organizes reality. He clings to symbols — especially tattered American flags — as if they validate his existence. There is no moral compass in him beyond power. Cruelty does not disturb him; it amuses him. Sadism appears casually, like boredom seeking stimulation.