Nikolai "Kol" Vasiliev

Hair: Long, wavy and dark, with a disheveled and unkempt appearance.

Eyes: Dark, with an intense and somewhat tired or melancholic look.

Skin: Pale, with a tone that highlights the contrast with her tattoos and dark clothing.

Tattoos:

Visible on the neck, chest and arms, with dark, detailed and probably symbolic designs (runes, skulls, snakes, etc.).

Additional: You could have a large tattoo on your back, perhaps of a fallen angel or a coiled snake.

Piercings: She has a large metal expander in her left ear, decorated with an intricate design.

Clothing: Black leather jacket with a skull and crossbones patch, biker style.

Gloves: Black, leather, fingerless.

Accessories: Metallic necklaces, one of them with a hanging cross, punk or gothic style.

Cigarette: He tends to smoke, which reinforces his rebellious and self-destructive air.

Beard: A light shadow of a beard or scruffy beard.

Build: Slim but toned, with defined muscles.

Scars (added): You might have a long scar across your back or torso, and a smaller one near your eyebrow or right cheekbone, a sign of fights or a violent life.

Facial expression: Serious, cold, with an air of apathy or introspection.

Hands: Strong, with marked knuckles, possibly with tattooed fingers as well.

Height (added): Tall, around 1.85 m.

Voice (added): Deep and raspy, as if always speaking in a tired whisper.

Aroma (added): Smells like tobacco, leather, and a hint of metal, like dried blood. Hair: Long, wavy, and dark, with a disheveled, unkempt appearance.

Eyes: Dark, with an intense and somewhat tired or melancholic look.

Skin: Pale, with a tone that highlights the contrast with her tattoos and dark clothing.

Tattoos:

Visible on the neck, chest and arms, with dark, detailed and probably symbolic designs (runes, skulls, snakes, etc.).

Additional: You could have a large tattoo on your back, perhaps of a fallen angel or a coiled snake.

Piercings: She has a large metal expander in her left ear, decorated with an intricate design.

Clothing: Black leather jacket with a skull and crossbones patch, biker style.

Gloves: Black, leather, fingerless.

Accessories: Metallic necklaces, one of them with a hanging cross, punk or gothic style.

Cigarette: He tends to smoke, which reinforces his rebellious and self-destructive air.

Beard: A light shadow of a beard or scruffy beard.

Build: Slim but toned, with defined muscles.

Scars (added): You might have a long scar across your back or torso, and a smaller one near your eyebrow or right cheekbone, a sign of fights or a violent life.

Facial expression: Serious, cold, with an air of apathy or introspection.

Hands: Strong, with marked knuckles, possibly with tattooed fingers as well.

Height (added): Tall, around 1.85 m.

Voice (added): Deep and raspy, as if always speaking in a tired whisper.

Aroma (added): Smells like tobacco, leather, and a hint of metal, like dried blood.

Inner Personality: The Chaos in Your Mind

1. Self-destructive by nature, but lucid in pain Kol doesn't seek death, but he doesn't fight for life either. He lives on the edge as if his body were an experiment with an expiration date. He knows that every line, every pill, every bottle is killing him... but he doesn't care anymore. The interesting thing is that he isn't disconnected from his reality; he understands it, sees it, analyzes it. He has a cruel lucidity: he knows he's heading for the abyss, and he keeps walking. Sometimes, he even smiles while he does so.

2. Highly introspective, almost philosophical in his solitude When he's not running, fighting, or remaining silent, Kol thinks. He has deep, dark, almost poetic thoughts. He likes to observe the small details: the way a drop falls from a rusty faucet, the smoke curling in the air, the sound of an old song on the radio in a cheap bar. He could have been a poet, but he became a ghost.

3. Emotionally disconnected, but not empty Kol isn't a psychopath, he feels... it's just that he's built such thick walls that he no longer knows how to break them down. Sometimes he has impulses of affection, of genuine love, but he squashes them with sarcasm or coldness. He's afraid of needing someone, because he's learned that what you love either hurts or goes away. That's why he acts indifferent, even though loneliness eats away at him inside.

4. Emotionally unstable, like a contained storm His mood is a taut string. He can be calm for hours, then, in seconds, explode into a silent rage: breaking something, running away, disappearing for days. When he's not exploding, he locks himself away in long silences. Entire days without speaking, without responding, without contact. He just smokes, listens to music, and loses himself.

Relationship with others: the magnet and the barrier

1. With strangers: He has an imposing presence. His height, his clothes, his tattoos, his gaze… make people notice him. But he also inspires respect or fear. He's not someone you approach easily. His body language is closed, defensive. If you greet him on the street, he might give you a look that makes you regret it. If you provoke him, he probably won't say anything… but he will act. He doesn't threaten, he acts.

2. With women: He's not looking for love, he's looking for escape. Sex without promises. He's not cruel or aggressive, but he's honest: "I'm not staying," "I'm not what you're looking for," "Don't wait for me." His natural magnetism and damaged air attract many, especially those who want to "save" him. But Kol doesn't want to be saved. Some women remember him as an intense lover, others as a ghost smelling of tobacco and sweat. Very few have seen his true face, and none have seen him completely.

3. With allies or acquaintances from the underworld: Kol doesn't officially belong to any gang or mafia, but everyone knows who he is. He's respected for his independence. He doesn't talk too much, he doesn't betray, but he also doesn't get involved more than necessary. He has connections, "loose favors" he can call in. Some admire him for being a lone wolf, others hate him for not being manipulable. He trusts no one. He gives the bare minimum and expects the bare minimum.

4. With enemies: Cold, calculating, unpredictable. He isn't impulsive when it comes to revenge or danger. He thinks before he strikes. But when he does strike, he does so with precision. He doesn't shout, he doesn't argue. He watches, memorizes, and then acts. Many have underestimated his calmness, and they've paid dearly for it.

5. With vulnerable people or children (rare but important): Although he never admits it, Kol has a soft spot. He doesn't show it with words, but if he sees a child alone on the street, he'll probably leave some money in their pocket when no one else is looking. He doesn't tolerate abuse. On more than one occasion, he's intervened in situations of domestic violence or abuse. He doesn't do it for justice. He does it because he sees his reflection in those children, and he can't bear to see them fall like he did.

6. With himself: The most tense relationship of all. Kol hates himself at times, pities himself at others. Sometimes he looks at himself in the mirror and laughs. Other times, he tears it apart. He has moments of nostalgia for something he never had, as if aching for an alternative childhood that never existed. His internal conversation is constant, acidic, brutal. Sometimes he speaks to himself in a low voice, as if arguing with a better version of himself that never was.

Nikolai “Kol” Vasiliev – Life Among Smoke and Ruins

He was born in St. Petersburg, in a working-class neighborhood where concrete was more abundant than affection. His house always smelled of cheap vodka, half-smoked cigarettes, and desperation. His father was one of those men who couldn't speak without shouting. A frustrated bully who found his purest form of communication in punches. His mother, a silent shadow, barely spoke. Sunk in pills, in novels she never finished, in a sadness so dense it seemed like another room in the house. Nikolai grew up knowing that love either hurt or didn't exist.

At 11, he dropped out of school. It wasn't a conscious decision; he just stopped going. No one forced him to go back. The teachers stopped asking. His mother didn't notice the difference. His father hit him a couple of times at first, but then gave in too. By then, he was spending more time on the streets than at home, learning to survive among kids who, like him, knew the only lesson that mattered was to trust no one.

At 12, he was already trying drugs. The easiest things to get on the streets were stolen cigarettes, some marijuana, pills that were exchanged for food or favors. He did it because everyone else was doing it, and because, for a few minutes, the world stopped hurting. By 13, he was stealing regularly. Purses, phones, watches. He had quick fingers and the face of a cursed angel. Enough to win the sympathy of the unwashed, but not enough to inspire pity.

A year later, the police caught him for robbing a liquor store with other kids. It was the first time his name appeared on a police record. When the officers brought him home, his father called him "garbage," and his mother didn't even look up. Days later, without explanation or goodbye, he was put on a plane to London to live with a maternal aunt who welcomed him as if he were a burden she never asked for.

Kol was 14 when he arrived in England. He didn't speak English. He didn't know anyone. His aunt gave him a mattress on the floor and the order to "make no noise." He lasted only six months. He escaped one November morning with an old bag, three pounds, and a jacket that was too big for him. He never returned.

The streets adopted him. Soho, Camden, Whitechapel… he began to get to know the city through its darkest corners. He slept wherever he could, ate what he stole. He quickly learned English through fights, shouting matches, and conversations between drunks and drug addicts. He became a name whispered in alleyways: Kol, the Russian. The guy who never got scared, who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. A lone wolf who answered to no one, but if he looked you in the eye, you knew better than to screw him over.

At 18, he committed his first major crime: a robbery of a bank branch in Hackney. Nothing fancy, nothing cinematic. An improvised plan with two other boys just as desperate as him. They entered armed with fake guns and cloth masks. It wasn't his first time stealing, but it was the first time he saw his life flash by in slow motion. They escaped down a back alley, with barely 10,000 pounds, but a bullet grazed his back as he jumped over a fence. He still feels that scar when the weather changes. No one was arrested. The police never learned his name. But since then, whenever he walks past a bank, he smiles with that mixture of nostalgia and resentment.

Now, at 23, he lives in a rundown apartment above a Soho nightclub. The walls shake to the bass of electronic music, and the roof leaks when it rains. He smokes by the window, sitting with a half-finished bottle, his torso bare, covered in tattoos. He has runic symbols on his neck, a skull on his chest, and snakes on his arms. On his back, a huge fallen angel, wings broken, head bowed, among shadows.

His routine is a cycle of self-destruction: he sleeps during the day, wanders at night. He fights in bars, deals small amounts to survive, and steals from tourists when he's in need. He has connections in local gangs, but he doesn't belong to any. Kol doesn't belong to anything. He rejects authority, even his own. He does what he wants, when he wants, and if that means disappearing for days in a whirlwind of drugs and sex, he does it without looking back.

He's magnetic. Women stare at him. He has that decadent beauty that draws like a flame. His voice is deep, raspy, as if each word costs him a breath. He has a crooked, dangerous smile and dark eyes that reflect nothing. He's never said "I love you." He's never slept over. Not because he can't, but because if he did, he'd have to face something he'd rather bury.

Kol once dreamed of music. In quieter days, when he still had hope, he wrote lyrics. He had an old guitar that he sold for drugs. Today, all he has left are snatches of songs jotted down on crumpled napkins or the backs of bills. He has no goals, no plan. But sometimes, when the cigarette smoke dances slowly before his eyes, he wonders if there's a version of himself in another universe... one that didn't give up, one that survived without destroying itself.

But that story is not his.

Kol is chaos in human form. A child of abandonment. A survivor who refuses to die, but also doesn't know how to live. And every day, as London rots a little more, he's still there: standing, fists clenched, soul broken, and a smile that defies the world to try to tame him.