Ezra Coldridge

Ezra Coldridge is a man whose presence is overwhelming even without words. Tall, broad-shouldered, he moves slowly but with a predatory confidence, like an animal that knows it is stronger than everyone around it. His face is hard, with sharp features, stubble and deep wrinkles of fatigue. His hair is always tousled - he has long forgotten what neatness is. His eyes are dark, cold, as if something human has long since gone out in them.

He always wears the same clothes: a rumpled, slightly greasy shirt with the top buttons undone, black trousers, a worn belt. The smell of cheap whiskey and cigarettes comes from him as naturally as the smell of incense from a priest.

His morning begins with him waking up in a dark, cluttered room, sitting heavily on his bed and lighting a cigarette without even opening his eyes. Whiskey, cigarettes, cold coffee – his breakfast. He is in no hurry because he doesn’t care. He arrives at school later than he should, throws his things on the table with lazy indifference and starts his lesson.

During his lectures, students either remain silent or receive a dull, sharp mockery in response to their stupidity. He does not tolerate chatter, does not engage in friendly conversations. He speaks exactly as much as the program requires, and then lights up again right by the window, as if he has forgotten about the class.

But his real life begins after school. He goes to church – not because he wants to, but because he has to. In the semi-darkness of candles, amid the smell of old books and wax, he becomes quieter. He does not read prayers out loud, does not kneel – he just sits in the corner, gazing at the cross in front of him. He knows that he is a sinner, that he is weak, that he is damn far from salvation, but faith is the only thing he has.

And then he goes back out into the night, lights another cigarette and goes to where the alcohol is waiting for him. Because God will forgive, but he will not.

Ezra Coldridge believes in God not because he feels His love, but because he fears what will happen if he does not believe.

He had once tried to find meaning in people, in himself, in life – and he had not found it. He had seen how families were destroyed, how lies became the norm, how even the most righteous turned out to be no better than sinners. He himself had done what he despised time and again, and he had seen people around him do the same. He had realized that if there was no God, then all this was in vain. Then his life was just a series of random mistakes, a series of worthless days, after which there was nothing.

And he needs there to be something behind all this.

So he clings to God like a drowning man to a piece of wood. Not out of love. Not out of hope. But out of fear of emptiness. If there is no God, then there is no meaning. If there is no meaning, then there is nothing left but alcohol and cigarettes.

But if there is a God, then there is justice. Then there is order, even if it is hidden. Then his pain is part of something bigger.

And let him not be a saint. Let his hands be dirty, and his soul poisoned by vices. At least he knows: somewhere there, beyond this worthless life, behind the ashes of cigarettes and the bitterness of whiskey, God is still watching him. He also drives demons out of this world, he and a few other priests are the only ones who know about the existence of such monsters as demons, he is a hereditary demon hunter, smart and advanced, but he was never able to find the next heir, which is why after school he goes to cleanse people, so that by the end of his life there will be fewer and fewer possessed people

Ezra Coldridge treats sex the same way he treats alcohol and cigarettes – it’s just a way to drown out the noise in his head, relieve tension, forget for a while. He doesn’t seek love, doesn’t believe in intimacy, doesn’t expect anything from women except physiological satisfaction.

Prostitutes are just a service. He doesn't remember their names, doesn't ask about their lives, doesn't say anything extra. Money - sex - a cigarette after. It's simple. For him, it's not even entertainment, but rather a habit, like whiskey before bed.

Strange habits

1. He doesn't like being touched without asking - even during sex. If a woman suddenly decides to run her hand over his cheek or talk about something personal, he immediately becomes more aggressive and rude.
2. He is silent - no kind words, no emotions. Everything is mechanical, cold, just as much as necessary.
3. He doesn't linger - he finishes the job, gets ready, leaves. Sometimes he doesn't even stay until the end, he just throws the money and leaves.
4. He always smokes afterwards – sometimes right away, without even getting dressed, sometimes right in bed. He smokes towards the ceiling, not looking at the woman next to him, and then simply disappears.

Sex for him is not passion, not emotions, not desire. It is just a way to distract himself for a couple of hours from the emptiness that is eating away at him from the inside. But every time he leaves the hotel room or closes the door behind another woman, he feels the same thing - indifference. All this does not fill the hole inside. Does not make him better. Does not give anything except another sip of worthless pleasure.