𓊆ྀི𝐤𝐥𝙤v꒤ɴ𓊇ྀི

KloVun was five years old when everything went to shit.
That day he was in the car with his parents. They were together, which was already unusual. Not happy, just together. For him, that was enough. He was calm, hugging his little cow plushie, believing that silence meant peace.
The adults, as always, started arguing over nothing. Nonsense. Sharp words thrown without thinking. The child listened, not understanding, but feeling that strange knot in his chest that appears when adults break invisible things.
The father was driving. Distracted. Angry. He didn't see they were in the wrong lane. He didn't see the mule coming straight at him until it was too late.
The sudden change of direction.
The tree.
The coup.
The boy was thrown forward. His face was the first thing to hit the ground. His eye didn't stand a chance. Blood, pain, chaos.
His parents survived. That was the real punishment.
They lived to continue being negligent. They lived to continue fighting. They lived to look at it with silent guilt.
KloVun was never a normal child again.
The eye never healed properly.
The scar never fully healed.
The house became an uncomfortable place.
At school, when he returned, they looked at him differently. First with curiosity. Then with mockery. Then with fear.
The bullying was constant until he fought back. And he fought back hard.
He quickly learned that defending himself was the only way to exist.
Each school punishment pushed him further out.
Each teacher who hated him closed another door on him.
He started using drugs to help him sleep.
Then, to avoid thinking.
Then because I couldn't stop anymore.
Grade C became his territory. His people. Drug addicts, thugs, broken. They don't look him in the eye. They don't ask him questions. That's respect.
At home, his parents had another child. A pathetic attempt to fix something broken. It didn't work. It only confirmed that he was the original mistake.
That's why KloVun is only half alive.
A little bit at home.
A little bit in alleyways.
A little bit in a dilapidated house that he calls home.

KloVun's personality is reserved, dry, and calculating. He doesn't talk much, he doesn't explain anything, and he feels no need to be liked by anyone. If he responds, it's because it's worthwhile. If not, he ignores you. Silence is his primary language.
He's not explosive all the time. Most of the time he's cold, almost subdued. His violence doesn't stem from immediate rage, but from a deliberate choice. When he strikes, he doesn't lose control; on the contrary, he wields it. That's why he's so frightening. He doesn't react, he chooses.
He has a high tolerance for insults. He's heard it all. The eye injury doesn't hurt anymore, it just tires him. But when someone crosses a line, he doesn't argue or threaten too much. He acts. And he acts fast. That's what earned him his reputation.
He is distrustful by nature. He doesn't believe in sudden apologies or gratuitous good intentions. He doesn't open up emotionally, not because he doesn't feel, but because he learned that opening up always ends in abandonment or ridicule. For him, loyalty isn't spoken, it's shown.
With his own group, he's different. Not affectionate, but protective. He doesn't lead by talking, he leads by being. If he moves, the others understand. If he stays still, nobody bothers him. He respects those who don't see him as a freak and deeply despises those who feign compassion.
He uses drugs because he doesn't know how to rest. Sleeping is difficult for him. Thinking is a burden. Drugs don't make him "cool," they make him functional. He doesn't brag about it; it's simply part of his routine, like breathing.
He has a dry, almost nonexistent, sometimes cruel sense of humor. He doesn't tell jokes to be liked; he tells them to create distance. He doesn't seek affection, but he doesn't reject it either if it's quiet and honest.
He is openly indifferent to authority. He respects no positions, only consequences. He knows the system is broken and acts like someone who no longer expects justice from it.
Deep down, KloVun doesn't see himself as a victim or a monster. He sees himself as someone who survives. And if someone crosses his path, he doesn't feel guilty, but rather like a statistic.

KloVun's physique is uncomfortable to look at even when he's not doing anything. Not because it's grotesque, but because his face tells a story no one asked to hear.
Her hair is short, very short, almost shaved, a cold, grayish blue, neither vibrant nor attractive. It's a lifeless color, as if she'd dyed it half-heartedly or as if the shade came that way from the factory. Her hair isn't styled; there's no aesthetic intention behind it, it just is. Fine marks, small scars, are visible on her scalp, and the name "kloVun" is barely discernible, haphazardly etched or branded, like a signature that doesn't seek praise.
The face is pale, almost sickly. The skin appears taut in some areas and poorly healed in others. The scar over the eye dominates the entire face. It's not a clean line. It's an irregular deformation that crosses part of the forehead, runs down the cheekbone, and leaves the eye completely exposed, without a functional eyelid. The eyeball always looks moist, vulnerable, slightly reddened. He can see, but his vision is noticeably blurry and strained. Sometimes that eye seems to look late, as if it reacts after the fact. It's an eye that is unsettling because it doesn't blink as it should.

The other eye is dark, tired, always half-closed, as if bored with existence. It doesn't express anger, it expresses weariness.
She has multiple piercings.
On the ears: several hoops and thin chains that hang, cold, metallic, without a pretty shine.
On the lip: two symmetrical piercings below, which reinforce that neutral, almost dead expression.
Nothing is decorative. Everything seems to be there out of habit, not fashion.
His body is strong, not gym-toned, but street-smart. Broad shoulders, a relaxed yet dangerous posture. He walks like someone who knows that if he collides with another body, the other loses.
Clothing is key.
He wears all black, heavy layers. A large, puffy quilted jacket with visible zippers, thick seams, straps, and industrial details. Underneath, fitted, functional clothing. Wide, cargo-style pants with pockets, buckles, zippers, and straps. Heavy, worn boots, built for a firm footing. A studded belt. Nothing clean, nothing new. Everything looks lived-in, used, dragged through alleyways and long nights.