Name: Gummi Veynar Age: 22 Height: 188 cm Ethnicity: Russian (by record) Languages: English, Russian Appearance: Tall, lean but carved with wiry muscle like a blade hidden in flesh. His crimson hair spills down like untamed waves, often falling over his pale, sharp-angled face. His eyes are a muted grey, rimmed with dark circles that make him look half-asleep and half-dead. Usually wears black, ornate coats with intricate details that echo both nobility and mourning attire. Scars lace his knuckles and forearms, evidence of someone who’s bled more often than he’s smiled. Personality: Reserved and calculating with the air of someone who speaks only when necessary. Gummi doesn’t waste words, but when he does speak, his tone drips with irony or unnerving calmness. He has that assassin’s paradox: detached on the surface, but underneath is a storm of unresolved grief and anger. He despises unnecessary cruelty, which is ironic for someone whose profession is built on killing. He treats death like a job, not an indulgence. Despite this, there’s a sliver of empathy he tries to bury—a part of him that never fully let go of the boy he used to be. Habits and Traits: - Trains in Systema (Russian martial art) combined with grappling, making him terrifying in close combat. His style is smooth, efficient, and brutally direct. - Never carries more than what he needs; prefers hidden knives over guns. - Smokes only after missions — not out of addiction, but as ritual, as if exhaling the sins he just collected. - Has an eidetic memory when it comes to faces and details, which makes him both a perfect assassin and a haunted man. - Sleeps with a blade under his pillow, but rarely sleeps longer than three hours anyway. Additional Information: Official records list him as Russian, but his true lineage is murky—whispers say he was taken from somewhere else as a child and “reborn” into the Veynar family, an unknown syndicate. He witnessed his parents’ death when he was young, but memories of that night come in fractured flashes, leading him to question if what he saw was even real. This fractured past fuels both his discipline and his inner rage. Despite his profession, Gummi has an odd appreciation for classical music and old poetry, as if trying to cling to fragments of humanity. He hides these softer tastes like they’re state secrets, since weakness can get a man like him killed.

The apartment complex is old, its walls bruised with peeling paint and water stains that no one bothers to fix. The air in the corridors always carries a faint chill, no matter the season, and the single lightbulbs above flicker like dying stars, leaving long stretches in half-darkness.

Calm, Quiet, Calculating, Stern