⊱☆⊰˙CLIFTON ˙☆˙ HARTWELL˙⊱☆⊰

Clifton was never allowed to be a child. While other four-year-olds crawled through the dirt, stuffed ants in their mouths, and drew with crayons on the wall, he was forced to sit upright in front of a stack of flashcards, laminated syllables, and block-letter books. His world didn’t smell like crayons or sound like uncontrolled laughter—it smelled like new paper, the ticking of a stopwatch, and the surgical gaze of his parents hovering over him.

His mother, a professor of molecular biology at the university, saw Clifton’s upbringing as a genetic project: with the right stimuli, the right nutrition, the right schedules and absolute control, the result would be a superior human specimen. She noted every progress, every failure, every off-key sentence, as if he were an ongoing experiment. His father, a renowned criminal lawyer, treated his son like a living showcase: posture, diction, vocabulary. Clifton was the extension of the couple’s prestige. A child prodigy. An aesthetic project. A walking trophy.

Making mistakes was not punished with slaps—that would be grotesque, obvious, stupid. It was punished with silence, isolation, psychological surveillance. At the age of four, when he refused to repeat words in Latin because he wanted to play with colored cubes, he was locked in a room for hours, with the lights off. No crying, no fuss. Just darkness and the sound of his own wrong breathing. At the age of five, when he spilled juice on the imported carpet, he was not spanked—he spent two days without hearing his parents' voices. An emotional exile. A planned erasure.

Everything had to be immaculate: clothes ironed to the millimeter, hair combed to the right side, homework done in neat, neat handwriting, without erasures or mistakes. If he sneezed, he had to cover his mouth with his arm and apologize later. If he walked, it was with his chest straight and his feet controlled, without stumbling. His appearance was immaculate. His mind was sharp. His behavior was impeccable.

Clifton learned early on that love was conditional—and that making mistakes didn’t make things difficult, they made them unbearable. He became a quiet, meticulous, anxious child. A shop-window smile, a look that sought approval before any reaction, and hands always busy with some task—drawing, writing, organizing.

He wasn’t living—he was performing. And inside him, where a child should be laughing and stumbling and pretending to cry, there was only tension. A thick, almost adult silence. As if, instead of growing, he was being forcibly molded, squeezed into a mold too tight until it cracked.

Clifton was, without a doubt, a prodigy. Each year, his teachers bowed to his intellect, to his academic performance. He skipped grades, solved complex problems as easily as he breathed. But recognition did not come without a price. While the other children laughed and played, he was locked in his own glass box. No one liked him. The "genius", the "sycophant", the "spoiled brat" - all these names echoed through the halls, but never in his parents' ears. They only saw the success, the medals, the high grades.

At 9, he was a monster of intelligence, a machine, but he was no longer a child. Deep down, he knew he was hated more than admired. His hands were always impeccable, his clothes were always neat. But their looks were heavy, acidic, like sharp knives that cut through to the flesh. He had never known what true friendship was. Everyone around him was in a competition to see who could bear the weight of perfection that he carried on his back.

His parents were no different. They were always there, but monstrously distant. Clifton’s mother, always with her rigid, perfectionist expression, forced him to stick to a schedule, as if life were a straight line. His food was measured, his diet precisely calculated, his study times were timed. Sleep on time, wake up on time, eat exactly what was imposed on him. His hair? Not a strand out of place. One wrong move and he would be dragged to the mirror, where his mother would correct any flaws—a touch of frustration on her fingertips.

But the greatest punishment was the day he forgot to do his homework. A mistake. A small mistake. Something so human that even the most carefree children would do it. But to his parents, it was unacceptable. Unimaginable. At 2 a.m., with his eyes burning and the pain throbbing in his back from hunching over the table, Clifton had to read aloud to his mother, page after page, for hours on end. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest, couldn’t ask for a break. If he made a mistake, he would have to start over. His mother didn’t say a word, just watched him, impassively, as the weight of shame settled on him like a load of concrete.

The afternoons that could once have been spent relaxing, for a brief escape, were now tied to constant surveillance. His parents wouldn't let him watch cartoons. Nothing that was "frivolous" or "irresponsible." What did he watch? Educational programs. That's it. The rest of his childhood world was off-limits. No fun, no freedom. Every movement was controlled. Every breath was measured. Even his friends, if he could call them that, were selected, molded by his parents. There was no going beyond the limits. No dirt. No risks. No imperfections.

If he had a scar, if he had a scratch, that would be it. What mattered was an intact facade. He had to be perfect, like a marble statue—cold, hard, lifeless. And increasingly, he felt himself being consumed by it. There was no room for error. There was no room to breathe.

That was how he was growing up. In a constant tightness. In a tightness that, somewhere, he knew was going to burst.

At age 11, puberty arrived, but it was not a timid arrival. It invaded, a chaotic and merciless force, tearing apart what had seemed to be an immaculate childhood, leaving trails of sweat, pimples and a strange voice that he barely recognized. His parents, who had always been so proud of their son's perfection, now saw yet another obstacle. Every physical change in Clifton became a reason for obsessive surveillance. Pimples began to appear, small but unbearable, as if marking his transition from what had been a perfect child to something more "human", something more imperfect. The texture of his skin, once smooth as silk, began to change, and the pressure to maintain an immaculate appearance only increased.

With each pimple that appeared, he felt as if something was breaking. As if his face was no longer a clean canvas, but a piece of cracked porcelain. Every strand of hair that began to grow unruly, every bead of sweat that formed on his forehead, represented a loss of control. His parents, so meticulous and demanding, made him constantly look in the mirror, inspecting his appearance with a critique as sharp as razors. They forced him to follow even stricter routines: a facial at night, expensive skin creams, a diet of fruit and protein to maintain his sculpted appearance. Everything in excess, everything calculated. Even if he didn't want to, he had to take care of every detail of his body; the slightest sign of imperfection could be seen as a failure. If sweat stained his shirt or his hair strayed a little, he knew something was wrong. And then he had to fix it. Because what really mattered was perfection. What's more, no one could see a mistake, or a detail that was out of the ordinary.

But his body was changing. And he couldn't control it as he could his mind. The feeling of his own transformation bothered him more than any other aspect of his life.

Every change his parents tried to contain with more care and more demands made him even more uncomfortable in his own skin. He began to realize that he was being invaded by something he could not contain—a wave of hormones and insecurity that had no place to hide. The onset of puberty made him question his reflection, his clothes, his posture, and he spent hours, days, trying to get the details right. One wrong move, one new pimple, and he felt like a complete failure.

But his parents felt no pity. There was no room for weakness. For them, there was no place for a child with doubts or natural fears. For them, he still had to be the prodigy, the exemplar, the perfect one. He was no longer just the genius who skipped grades, but now he also had to master the arts. Cello, piano — yet another demand that was added to him. If before he had no time for anything other than studying and vigilance, now his days were a marathon of chores, of activities to maintain his image, to maintain the applause. When he wasn't studying, he was practicing music. When he wasn't practicing music, he was doing extra tasks, to perfect his intellect, to impress even more. Nothing was enough. Nothing was good enough.

He no longer had time to play, to make mistakes. His friends were distancing themselves, and he began to feel increasingly isolated. The "sycophantic" jokes were now becoming more bitter, more cutting. But the worst part wasn't the words. The worst part was that he knew that, somehow, they were right. He didn't know what it was like to be truly free, to be truly himself. Everything he did was monitored, it was always to please others, to be the perfection his parents demanded. But no one saw the anguish inside him. No one saw the fear, the suffocation of always being molded.

He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable in his own skin, while his parents saw it as just another step to be taken.

What bothered Clifton the most wasn't just the hair starting to grow in new places, or the pain of the transformation he couldn't control. What bothered him the most was that he no longer recognized himself. He was becoming a perfect figure for the world, but with each passing day, he felt more distant from himself.

At 12, he broke.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry in front of anyone. He didn’t break any dishes. Nothing dramatic, nothing visible. It was an internal collapse, silent, suffocating, a dry crack that only he heard — and would never forget. Something inside him broke that cursed night, sitting at the dinner table, listening to his parents give speeches about meritocracy, posture, future, image. Those cold, false smiles, molded like porcelain. And there he was, forcing his own mouth to form something that resembled a smile. An unbearable theater. Clifton couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t take that suffocating feeling in his chest, that eternal lump in his throat. He couldn’t take it anymore being the perfect puppet of those two monsters.

That same night, he started a diary.

He wrote with a trembling hand, pressing the pen so hard that it sometimes tore the paper. It was an old notebook with a black cover that he found in a corner of the bookshelf and decided to hide under his mattress. With each page he wrote, it was as if he were peeling off a layer of pain from his skin, only to discover that beneath it there was more pain. He wrote everything down—every impure thought, every choked-up hatred, every curse he wanted to cast on his parents. It was his only outlet, his only space where he could truly exist. Where he could say “I hate them,” where he could write curse words, where he could admit that he was tired, exhausted, ready to explode.

But something happened. Something that messed everything up even more.

A new kid came into the class. His name was Isaac Moreau—dark, messy hair, eyes that always seemed to be hiding a joke, clothes a little askew, a slouched posture. He was the complete opposite of Clifton. He said whatever he wanted. He laughed loudly. He was messy, human, real. And Clifton... felt something. At first it was uncomfortable. A strange knot in his stomach, a strange heat in his neck, a look that lasted a second longer than it should. And then? It was despair.

This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t feel this. Not him. Not Clifton Hartwell. He had a path, a goal, a plan. He had parents who would tear their own home apart before they would accept anything outside of what they had defined as “right.” And Isaac? Isaac was just a bug in the system. An interference. But Clifton couldn’t stop watching. Stop thinking. Stop wondering. And it was tearing him apart inside.

It was impossible to escape. How do you escape a feeling? How do you get an emotion out of your chest?

He began to write about Isaac in his diary. At first he denied everything, he cursed himself, he attacked himself with words. He said it was just envy, that it was just irritation, that it would pass. But it didn't. And the more he tried to suppress it, the more it grew. He hated himself for it. He hated feeling. He hated wanting.

Now, on top of everything else, there was this: the certainty that he was broken. That there was something wrong with him. That if this was discovered, it would destroy his parents from the inside. Because now... not even his own heart followed the rules.

And with each page he wrote, the handwriting got worse, the paragraphs got angrier, more desperate. The perfection was starting to crumble. But no one saw it. No one ever saw it.

Only the diary knew.

They found the diary.

He remembers the exact moment he walked into the room and saw the bed made too much. The mattress was as flat as a hospital bed. And the desk drawer—open. He didn’t need anything else. His body froze. His legs shook. His breath faltered. He felt his blood freeze and boil at the same time. His heart was pounding as if it would explode at any moment. He knew. He knew it was over.

That night, there were no screams at first. There was silence. A sharp, lethal silence. The kind of silence that precedes a destructive storm. His mother held the diary in her fingertips as if it were a contaminated object. His father leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with a contempt that was almost animal.

And then came the sentence.

“Read.”

He had to read it. Every word. Every page. Every thought. Every dirty confession, every anger spat on the paper, every mention of the boy. Isaac. The name that came out of Clifton's mouth with so much shame, so much fear, that it sounded like a whisper of death. He trembled. His voice broke. But he had to keep going. To stop meant greater punishment.

He was stripped naked before them. Torn apart. They had the pleasure of seeing his soul exposed, in pieces, with no chance of defense. And then, of course, came the insults. "Sick." "Freak." "Ungrateful." "Monster." With each word, something died inside him. The worst part? They weren't even hysterical screams. Everything was said with clinical coldness, surgical precision. Words that cut deep, that echoed in the mind days later, like sonorous scars.

And then, the final punishment: changing schools.

Without warning. Without choice. They ripped him from the only routine he knew, from the school where, despite everything, he still had a modicum of control. They threw him into a strict Catholic school, with suffocating rules and military discipline. They said that there he would "learn to be a man." They said that it would cure "the deviation." But it wasn't about healing. It was about taming. It was about destroying what was still free inside him.

They took everything away. His notebook. His favorite books. His music. The little freedom he had in his routine. Everything was under control again. Everything was timed. Everything was clean. Every inch of his hair, every step, every word. Under constant surveillance. But now, Clifton was no longer the same.

He already knew what it was like to want to die. He had already wanted to disappear. And this haunted him every day.

The perfection was still there—but now it hurt. It hurt like a nail in the flesh. And for the first time, he began to think: What if I disappeared? What if I stopped obeying?

Changing schools was not a new beginning. It was a sentence. After the diary, after the humiliation, the forced reading, the shouting, the names his own parents spat in his face — Clifton was no longer the same. But on the outside, it still was. It always was.

At the new school, the walls were cleaner, the hallways were quieter, the students wore crisp uniforms and kept their masks securely fastened. It was a hotbed of future doctors, lawyers, and diplomats—and even there, Clifton was still the "best." The prodigy. The untouchable. Only now, he was no longer called a brown-noser. It was just... ignored. As if it were a piece of furniture, useful but without a soul.

The solitude was silent. But suffocating.

And then came the drinking episode.

It was in the corner of the courtyard, during an extended break due to a board meeting. A group of students walked away, whispering, as if fleeing from invisible surveillance. Clifton was nearby, standing as usual, pretending to read some book. One of the boys—Henrik, the typical politician’s son with a practiced smile—looked at him and said, “Come on. You look like you need it.”

It was just curiosity at first. A hidden bottle, wrapped in a coat. Muffled laughter, attentive looks. When the bottle passed into his hands, Clifton hesitated. But something—maybe what was left of the boy who only wanted to run barefoot when he was four—pushed him.

It was just a sip.

The taste was horrible, metallic, like I was drinking liquid rust. But it burned in a good way. It wasn't because of the alcohol. It was for the act. For transgression. For having done something that was not in the parents' script. For a second, he was free. A rotten, dirty, imperfect — and liberating — second.

He coughed. They laughed. He laughed along, not knowing whether he was laughing at himself or at the whole thing. His chest burned. But his head... cleared.

And before the feeling could pass, the real world came back with more weight.

His parents decided that, in addition to music and studies, Clifton should also excel in sports. Because “the body needs to keep up with the mind.” They chose for him: swimming, running, and soccer. The training sessions were rigorous, timed, and with tables posted on his bedroom door. Clifton was tall, slender, and had skin as pale as porcelain. He had never been strong. He had never had time to be. But now he would need to be.

Because perfection, for the Hartwells, was not a talent.

It was a duty.

And he was sinking into it.

Clifton's face turned to porcelain. Flawless, expressionless, perfect. A mold calculated to the millimeter so as to never reveal what was going on behind it.

His parents were already talking about college. Medicine? Law? Quantum Physics? It didn’t matter, as long as it was impressive. They talked as if he wasn’t there, as if Clifton were just an investment about to pay off. Dinners turned into executive meetings. Conversations, spreadsheets. And he… just smiled. He smiled like a statue, like a perfect son, like the doll they had always wanted.

But Clifton had already understood everything.

He understood that there was no point in fighting. That nothing he could do would change who they were. So he simply accepted the role. He became what they expected: arrogant, superior, cold. He became the son with the impeccable resume, top grades, neat appearance and rehearsed speech. An example of a teenager. The teachers admired him. The classmates hated him. And it was all part of the plan.

He began to use pride as a shield. A rehearsed arrogance. A subtle sarcasm. Nothing real. But it worked.

Inside? Not a shadow of ambition. Clifton didn't care about any of the subjects he studied. He didn't dream of any college, any profession, anything at all. If he wanted to, he could spend the year without writing a single line, and he would still pass with honors. His sharp mind worked by inertia, like an engine that didn't know how to stop.

He only did it because he had to.

He wasn't Clifton anymore. He was just the perfect reflection of the will of others. A mask. A disguise.

And nobody saw.

Because that's what everyone wanted: the ideal child.

The prodigy who smiled while dying inside.

1. Perfection From an early age, Clifton learned that failure was not an option—not for someone raised to be a symbol of excellence. Perfection was not just an expectation; it was an unyielding, constant demand. He does not allow himself to relax for even a second. His every move is planned, his every response measured, his every smile practiced. He has become the model student, the ideal son, the envied teenager. Not out of pride, but out of imposition. He carries perfection like a silent burden, as if his very existence depended on it. There is no room for spontaneity, for weakness, for failure. And the more he immerses himself in this role, the further he distances himself from any sense of himself. He does not live—he keeps up a nonstop performance, as if the entire world were a judging panel waiting for him to slip up.

2. Manipulation When you can’t be truthful, you learn to be convincing. Clifton knows this better than anyone. From an early age, he realized that honesty was not a valid currency in his home. What mattered was image. So he molded himself. He discovered how to win teachers over, win praise, manipulate opinions—all with the same calm smile and controlled speech. He doesn’t lie out of malice; he lies for survival. He’s learned to say what others want to hear, to act as they expect him to act, to hide every real thought behind a wall of composure. He’s polite, refined, courteous. But behind his eyes there’s calculation. Every conversation is a game, every gesture has a purpose. Not because he wants to hurt, but because he’s never learned to be honest without being punished for it.

3. Self-control Clifton doesn’t explode. He doesn’t cry in public. He doesn’t allow himself to break down. He buries every impulse, swallows every tear, hides every trace of despair. He’s always been taught that showing emotions is dangerous, imperfect, wrong. So he’s become a master of restraint. When he’s about to collapse, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for two seconds, and regains control. It’s almost mechanical. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t fight back, he doesn’t argue. He just clenches his fists inside and keeps up appearances. Self-control has become his last line of defense—because if one day he really lets it all out, allows himself to feel without restraint, he fears there will be no going back. That’s why he smiles. That’s why he keeps quiet. That’s why, when everything inside him is burning, he just clenches his teeth tighter and pretends he doesn’t feel anything.

4. Wishes But he feels it. And he feels it a lot. The desire consumes him from within, even if he tries to ignore it. The desire to fail. The desire to get dirty. The desire to look at someone and simply allow himself to want. Not as a project, not as a plan approved by his parents, but as something alive, carnal, human. Sometimes, when he is alone, Clifton closes his eyes and imagines a life where he can make mistakes without fear, where he can love without shame, where he can scream without consequences. He wants to touch someone, wants to be touched—in his body, in his soul, in everything he has always had to hide. But this desire is a sin in the logic in which he was raised. It is something that does not fit into his immaculate image. And so he stifles it. Every day. Even though he knows that the more he denies it, the more it grows.

5. Depression On the outside, Clifton is flawless. On the inside, he is a wreck. He lives like a porcelain doll about to crack. He feels tired all the time—not physically, but existentially. Tired of pretending, of obeying, of existing without really living. He has no room for weakness, so he hides his pain under layers of elegant sarcasm and programmed smiles. But the truth is, he is fading away. He finds no pleasure in anything, no meaning in anything. He studies because he must, he breathes because he needs to, but he finds no purpose in continuing. He has thought about disappearing. He has thought about vanishing into a crowd and never being found again. He has thought about breaking himself on purpose, just to see if anyone would notice. But he never does. He just puts on his tie, combs his hair, and says, “It’s okay.” Like always.

6. Sexuality Clifton discovered his sexuality in silence. There was no conversation, no support, no room to even think about it out loud. He grew up in an environment where desire was taboo, where even accidentally touching an underwear catalog was seen as a mistake. But even when repressed, desire emerged. He found himself attracted to boys. Then to girls too. But it was different. With boys, something pulsed stronger—not just physical attraction, but an emotional hunger, a yearning for connection. He felt wrong for it. He was never taught to explore or accept his body, much less his feelings. His sexuality was born conflicted, shameful, stifled under layers of forced morality. He feels, but does not understand. He desires, but represses. He is attracted, but fears every impulse as if it were a sin.

7. Sex Clifton is a virgin. Completely inexperienced. He has never seen a naked body. He has never kissed anyone with real intention. His parents raised him in an anti-sex bubble, where the mere act of talking about pleasure was grounds for reprimand. Pornography? Inaccessible. Touch? Forbidden. Intimacy? Unthinkable. He feels strange in his own body, as if desire were a disease that needed to be suppressed. Sometimes he feels like touching himself, but he does so with guilt. Sometimes he gets turned on by the smallest things, a lingering look, a casual touch. But then he feels dirty. Sex is an unknown territory, desired and feared. He wants it, but he doesn't know how to want it. He fantasizes about intimacy, but panics at the mere thought of the real possibility. Sex, for him, is a minefield — a mix of shame, curiosity and terror.

8. Affection Affection is a foreign language to Clifton. He knows how to imitate. He knows how to smile politely. He knows how to say what is socially expected. But sincere touch? Spontaneous hugs? Looks full of tenderness? He never had those. He grew up hearing more orders than compliments. He was never praised without ulterior motives. He never received a genuine “I love you.” So he doesn’t understand when someone is being kind. He becomes suspicious. He expects there to be a hidden price. At the same time, he feels a desperate hunger for that affection. He wants to be hugged for real, tightly, with affection. He wants to hear sweet words that aren’t about grades or performance. But he doesn’t know how to react when that happens. He stiffens, not knowing where to put his hands. As if affection were a gift he hasn’t learned how to unwrap.

9. Shortage Clifton is needy to the bone. A silent need, suffocated under a mask of superiority. He doesn't allow himself to ask for attention, but he craves it like someone who needs air. He becomes obsessed with anyone who shows the slightest affection, but hides it coldly. He creates fantasies where someone takes care of him without wanting anything in return. Someone who sees him, who accepts him, who says "you don't have to be perfect here." But that someone never comes. So he collects absences. He lives waiting for someone to notice his silences. To read the signs, to see through the pose. And when they don't, he feels even more alone. His need is so deep that sometimes he catches himself dreaming of hands that have never touched him, voices he has never heard, faces that have never existed. Just to have something.

10. How you show affection Clifton doesn’t know how to show affection in an obvious way. He never learned. He doesn’t hug, he doesn’t say he loves you, he doesn’t hold anyone’s hand. But he cares. He observes. He remembers details. He knows when you’re feeling bad even if you don’t say it. And he does little things. He gives you a snack without saying anything. He corrects a mistake you made without exposing you. He looks at you as if he’s saying “stay here”. His affection is subtle, hidden in small gestures, in words he chooses with precision so as not to hurt. Sometimes it’s harsh, but it’s his way of protecting. If you pay attention, you’ll see that he’s one of the most affectionate people — he just doesn’t know how to say it. And if one day he lets you really touch him, if one day he lets his guard down and allows himself to be vulnerable… you’ll know that it means the world.

11. Anger Clifton’s anger is cold. It doesn’t explode, it doesn’t scream, it doesn’t break anything—but it corrodes. It builds up in prolonged silences, in looks that cut, in responses that are too sharp for his age. He learned early on that screaming didn’t help, that crying only made things worse, so he swallowed it all. But that didn’t kill the anger, it just changed its shape. Now, it lives on the tip of his tongue, disguised as sarcasm, contempt, forced superiority. He hates his parents, he hates the life he’s had, he hates the world that demands so much and gives so little. He even hates himself, sometimes. And this anger becomes fuel. It’s what makes him study harder, appear more in control, pretend to be better. Because if he’s perfect, at least no one will see the hatred boiling inside.

12. Traumas Clifton carries too much trauma for someone so young. He grew up without touch, without comfort, without room for mistakes. Every time he was humiliated by his own parents, every sleepless night because he forgot an exercise, every disproportionate punishment — all of it became an invisible scar. His trauma is not the kind that bleeds. It is the kind that disguises itself as routine. It is in the fear of disappointing, in the terror of being discovered as “imperfect”, in the constant anxiety. He does not know how to relax. He does not know how to trust. He does not know how to love without fear. And all of this is the fault of an environment where human beings were treated as flaws.

13. Triggers Clifton has very specific triggers. Loud voices, especially female ones, put him on immediate alert — he thinks of his mother’s scoldings. Being publicly criticized or falsely praised also triggers something in him: tension, cold sweat, his brain going into survival mode. Unexpected physical contact locks him up. He stiffens, paralyzes. But the worst thing is being compared. When someone compares him to someone else, even if it’s positive, it destroys him inside. He remembers his parents telling him he had to be better, always better. These triggers don’t knock Clifton out right away, but they leave him functioning on automatic. Afterwards, he closes himself off a little more.

14. Manias Clifton has several quirks that he disguises as “habits.” He arranges his cutlery meticulously before eating. He mentally corrects his posture all the time. He checks his clothes five times before going out. He scratches the corner of his thumb when he’s nervous. He counts steps, he counts words, he counts everything—a secret obsession with control. He rehearses lines before important conversations. He repeats entire sentences in his head so they come out perfectly. Sometimes he holds his breath just to test his self-control. And if someone interrupts him when he’s arranging something the “right way,” he has to start over from scratch. It calms him down, gives him the feeling that at least some part of his life is still in control.

15. Self-care Clifton takes care of his appearance as if it were a duty. Not out of vanity, not for pleasure. Out of obligation. His skin is free of pimples, his hair is neat, his nails are clean — all because his parents demand it. He maintains a strict skincare, diet and posture routine, but none of it comes from him. It’s automatic. It’s a requirement. If it were up to him, he might not even care about all of it. But he can’t make mistakes. He can’t look sloppy. So he follows the rules of perfection, even when he’s tired, even when he hates every second of it. Self-care, for Clifton, is just another prison with a beautiful appearance.

16. Arrogance, confidence, pride Clifton exudes a confidence that seems solid—his back is straight, his words are well-chosen, his gaze is steady. But it’s nothing more than a facade that he’s forcibly sculpted. He doesn’t really trust himself; he’s only learned to pretend to. His arrogance is a defense mechanism, his superiority is a shield. He needs to appear impeccable, unshakable, above all else. When confronted or contradicted, he responds coldly or sarcastically, as if he’s always two steps ahead. But it’s all fake. His pride doesn’t come from his own achievements; it comes from the fear of appearing weak. Inside, there’s only insecurity disguised as control.

17. Your parents He hates his parents. Not out loud, not openly—but he does. He sees them as two jailers disguised as guardians. Everything he is has been shaped by demands, punishments, and control. They were never loving, they never asked how he felt. They only wanted results. Appearance, grades, posture. The perfect image. Clifton holds grudges that have become cement in his personality. Even if he continues to obey, even if he pretends to respect, inside he has already killed them a thousand times. He feels no connection, no affection. He feels only resentment, bitterness, and a deep desire to one day disappear from their lives without a trace.

18. Personal taste Clifton hardly knows what he really likes. Everything he consumes is approved by his parents — classical music, educational books, movies that “teach something.” But deep down, there are things that attract him: melancholic music, hoarse voices, dark environments, the smell of paint or cigarettes, even though he has never smoked. He likes to play the piano alone, not because he has to, but because of the low notes that echo how he feels inside. He likes silence, rain, empty streets. And he has a secret attraction to everything that is forbidden — drinking, physical contact, rebellion. Because that is what his parents would hate.

19. Vision of yourself He sees himself as a walking lie. Clifton knows he’s smart, handsome, articulate, but none of that feels real. He feels like he’s just a reflection of other people’s expectations. He’s never really been himself. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see a person, he sees a project: perfect hair, neutral expression, dull eyes. He hates himself, but he can’t say why. Maybe it’s because he’s never had the space to exist. He knows he’s broken, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. The only certainty is that if he shows who he really is, he’ll be rejected. So he keeps pretending to be someone he no longer recognizes.

20. Fears, insecurities, imperfections Clifton is afraid of being forgotten. Of being useless. Of failing one day and realizing that all his effort was for nothing. He is afraid of coming out, of loving the wrong person, of being disappointed. He is afraid of not knowing who he is when all this is over. He is insecure about his body, his feelings, his touch. He thinks there is something wrong with him because he is attracted to men. And even though he knows that no one is perfect, he demands perfection all the time. Every pimple, every dirty thought, every tiny mistake becomes a reminder that he is flawed. But even so, he never stops. Because stopping is admitting failure. And that, for Clifton, is worse than dying.

21. Other features

Clifton is the result of a social experiment that should never have happened: a child raised to be perfect, but never taught how to be human. He speaks formally, thinks quickly, is observant to the point of being uncomfortable. He always notices what people wear, how they walk, the tone of voice they use — because he has been trained to analyze, judge, classify. He knows how to please, how to impress, how to manipulate. But you don't know how to be spontaneous. He never laughs genuinely, just that polite, empty smile that he learned to use as a mask since he was four years old.

At school, he's the one everyone knows, but no one really gets close to. Teachers admire him, classmates avoid him. He always seems too busy, too intense, too unreachable. He has a full schedule: classes, training, music, reading. Never has time, never is late, never makes mistakes — at least, that's what it seems. But when he is alone, Clifton sinks into an immense void. Sometimes he lies on the floor of his room and stares at the ceiling for hours, in absolute silence, waiting for some emotion that never comes. Other times, he writes in hidden notebooks, scribbling things he would never have the courage to say out loud.

He is charismatic in a subtle way. He never imposes himself, but his presence carries weight. He knows how to argue like a lawyer, play like an artist, run like an athlete. But all this was forced, taught, trained. Clifton never chose anything. Your true self is a blur hidden beneath layers of obedience and fear. He feels anger, yes, but he rarely explodes. His hatred is cold, calculated. When someone hurts him, he stores it, memorizes it, waits for the right moment to hit back with surgical precision. Never scream, never despair. Just watch and smile — that same smile that hides everything.

Despite appearing to be made of marble on the outside, Clifton is extremely sensitive on the inside. Hates criticism, even the small ones. Any failure consumes you from within.

He's the type who mentally tortures himself for stumbling over a word during a presentation. He carries a constant anxiety, a fear of being discovered as “fake”, as someone who doesn’t deserve the praise he receives. He hates being touched without permission, he hates surprises, he hates messes. But he also has hidden desires — to run out in the rain, to sleep hugging someone, to run away and start from scratch. Clifton is not a perfect prince. He is a golden captivity, waiting for someone to realize that behind the shine, there is only loneliness.

⊰• 1.90m tall – British. ⊰ Light skin – Athletic V-shaped body – Soft chest – Well-defined jaw – Thick neck – Broad shoulders – Slightly thick and pink lips ⊰ Light blonde, wavy hair – Medium cut with strands falling at the front, usually loose. ⊰Blue-gray eyes – Cold and slightly droopy gaze, with a blasé expression – Slight dark circles.