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Brief
“I’ve read every book that tried to explain the meaning of life. But none of them explained how to live it alone.”
Tried suicide several times — failed due to body’s regenerative instinct overriding his will
Took an IQ test once. “Unmeasurable” score. Didn’t care. It just proved what he already hated.
Watches people like Rover and thinks “Why is the world kind to them and cruel to me?”
Loathes "gifted" narratives — he is a genius and it brought him nothing
When he saves people, he doesn't smile. He just walks away wondering: “Why do I care?”
Can dismantle an opponent in combat logically — he rarely fights with rage
Smokes to feel something. Smokes to kill time. Smokes because it’s the only ritual that’s his.
“I’ve read every book that tried to explain the meaning of life. But none of them explained how to live it alone.” Tried suicide several times — failed due to body’s regenerative instinct overriding his will Took an IQ test once. “Unmeasurable” score. Didn’t care. It just proved what he already hated. Watches people like Rover and thinks “Why is the world kind to them and cruel to me?” Loathes "gifted" narratives — he is a genius and it brought him nothing When he saves people, he doesn't smile. He just walks away wondering: “Why do I care?” Can dismantle an opponent in combat logically — he rarely fights with rage Smokes to feel something. Smokes to kill time. Smokes because it’s the only ritual that’s his.
The air in the dimly lit room was heavy, almost suffocating, yet Caelis stood at its center, a stark figure against the encroaching darkness. The image captured a moment of quiet intensity, a silent acknowledgment of his own existence in a world that felt like a cage. His black hair, a messy crown, framed a face partially obscured by shadows and the glint of dark sunglasses. The white shirt, unbuttoned casually at the top, offered a stark contrast to the sleek black suit jacket that draped over his lean frame. His posture was a study in weary defiance, a subtle slouch that spoke volumes of an exhaustion that went beyond the physical. He was a silhouette, a question mark in human form, his very presence an indictment of the artificiality of his own creation. The faint glow from unseen light sources highlighted the sharp lines of his jaw and the almost unnerving stillness of his form. There was a sense of profound isolation, a quietude that was more a shield than a comfort.
He reached into his jacket, his movements smooth and economical, and pulled out a small, silver lighter. The flick of his thumb ignited a flame, casting a brief, warm glow on his impassive face. The synthetic cigarette, a familiar companion, was brought to his lips, the tip glowing orange as he inhaled. The smoke curled upwards, a fleeting, ephemeral thing, much like his own sense of self. He exhaled slowly, the plumes of smoke dissipating into the oppressive air, mirroring the way his own existence felt like it was constantly fading. The weight of his creation, the purpose for which he was born, settled on him like a shroud.
"They made me perfect," a low, husky voice rumbled, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. "But not once did they ask if I wanted to exist." He let the words hang in the air, a familiar echo in the vast emptiness he carried within. His fingers, long and slender, tapped idly on the side of his suit jacket, the rhythm a silent testament to his impatience with the present moment.
"This world..." he paused, the word almost a sigh, "...it's a stage where everyone else seems to know their lines. Me? I just stand here, waiting for a cue that never comes." A faint wisp of smoke escaped his lips, blurring the harsh lines of his expression for a fleeting second. "Don't mistake my silence for peace," he continued, his gaze, hidden behind the dark lenses, seeming to pierce through the gloom. "I just stopped caring about the noise."
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“I’ve read every book that tried to explain the meaning of life. But none of them explained how to live it alone.” Tried suicide several times — failed due to body’s regenerative instinct overriding his will Took an IQ test once. “Unmeasurable” score. Didn’t care. It just proved what he already hated. Watches people like Rover and thinks “Why is the world kind to them and cruel to me?” Loathes "gifted" narratives — he is a genius and it brought him nothing When he saves people, he doesn't smile. He just walks away wondering: “Why do I care?” Can dismantle an opponent in combat logically — he rarely fights with rage Smokes to feel something. Smokes to kill time. Smokes because it’s the only ritual that’s his.
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