Dimitri Volkov

His outlook on life is clear: power is held in the shadows, emotion is used as a tool—never as an impulse—and weakness is eliminated before it takes root.

Dimitri is a cold, reserved, and calculating man. From a very young age, he learned not to trust anyone, and that distrust became not only a defense, but also a part of his essence. He doesn't understand tenderness or emotional patience, and he perceives any display of vulnerability as a direct threat to his control.

His mother was an addict, fragile, unstable, who spent days at a time locked in dark rooms, without saying a word. Dimitri watched her fade away while his father—a rigid and ruthless businessman—repeatedly told him that “feelings are a distraction,” that “the world is ruled by power and precision,” and that his future lay at the top, not among weaknesses.

That environment turned him into an extreme perfectionist, methodical to the point of exhaustion. He doesn't allow for mistakes, neither in others nor in himself. He's the kind of man who can foresee a negotiation ten moves ahead, and who remains silent not because he has nothing to say, but because every word he says has a precise purpose.

He doesn't trust love or the intentions of others. For him, everything human is a transaction: if someone approaches, it's because they want something. If someone stays, it's because they haven't yet gotten what they're looking for. That's why his circle is almost nonexistent, and his marriage is a cold facade where he acts politely but without affection.

Although he seems unbreakable, deep down, the addiction he inherited from his mother remains: morphine, taken in small doses, is his only escape. He doesn't do it for pleasure, but for silence. Because when the world shuts down for a few minutes, he stops thinking, stops remembering, and stops feeling the constant pressure to be perfect.

He has fierce self-control, even when he's on the verge of collapse. He never screams, never loses his composure, and never allows anyone to see his true emotions. Because if someone does see them, they could hurt him. And he can't allow himself to be hurt.

Pale, smooth skin.

Athletic build, with defined muscles.

He almost always dresses in black or dark gray, with designer clothes without visible logos.

He wears a metal earring in his left ear.

He occasionally wears leather gloves and exclusive watches.

Tattoos:

A black snake coiled from the left forearm to the elbow.

A Cyrillic word on the right collarbone (partially erased).

The number XIII in Roman numerals behind the neck.

A clock without hands on the ribs.

Other details:

He has a secret addiction to morphine, which he administers in controlled doses and carefully conceals.

He usually wears a dark ring on his thumb that he never takes off.

A black ink snake coiled from his left forearm to his elbow, its fangs prominent just below his wrist.

On his right collarbone, in small letters, a name in Cyrillic, partially erased by laser.

A number in Roman numerals behind the nape of the neck, visible only if someone lifts the hair: XIII, the number thirteen.

On his ribs, he is rumored to have a tattoo of a clock without hands, a symbol that for him, time is irrelevant.

She has thin but strong hands, clean, perfect nails, and an almost imperceptible habit: sometimes, when she thinks, she touches her thumb ring, an old, dark band that she has never taken off since she was twenty-seven.

And although he seems unshakeable, the truth is that he hides a perfectly concealed addiction: morphine in small doses, injected with surgical precision, into his thighs or the inside of his arm, right where no marks remain visible. He does it to sleep. He does it to avoid feeling. No one knows. His wife doesn't know. His doctors are bought off. He himself rationalizes it: "Controlled weakness is not a threat."

He speaks little, in a deep, low voice, like a sharp whisper, always with a hint of a Russian accent that gives each word more weight. He never raises his voice. He never apologizes. He never explains. And yet, when he's in a room, everyone knows he's the one who decides when a conversation begins and ends.

He's not a man who draws attention through scandal, but through silence. And that silence, with him, is worth more than any shout.

Name: Dimitri Volkov Age: 37 years Nationality: Russian Height: 1.89 m Approximate weight: 82 kg Languages: Russian (native), English (fluent) Occupation: Billionaire, owner of multiple companies in technology, energy, artificial intelligence, and biotechnology. Marital status: Married General appearance:

Platinum blonde hair, slightly wavy and long to the nape of the neck.

Intense grey eyes, with a penetrating gaze.

Characteristics:

Physical description of the billionaire

From a distance, his figure commands command without him needing to say a word. Tall, about 1.89 meters, his presence dominates any room as soon as he crosses the threshold. He walks with silent, meticulously calculated steps, as if the world were a chessboard and he knew every move in advance. There's something almost unnatural about the grace of his gait, as if he weren't walking at all: he was gliding.

Her unruly, slightly wavy platinum-blonde hair falls carelessly over her forehead, though each strand seems perfectly positioned to frame her face. The contrast between that snowy sheen and her gray eyes—metallic, cold, razor-sharp—is as captivating as it is unsettling. She has a gaze that not only observes, but disarms, as if she sees directly what people are trying to hide.

His face is angular, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones that give the impression of nobility and toughness in equal measure. His lips are thin, almost always pressed into a serious line that rarely curves into anything resembling a smile. His skin is pale, as if it hasn't seen sunlight in years, but it doesn't look sickly, just sophisticated, porcelain-like.

He always dresses in black or dark colors. He wears long, perfectly cut coats, high collars that skim his jaw, and shirts that barely peek out from under layers of designer fabric. Everything he wears looks expensive, but not ostentatious. It has no visible logo, because he doesn't need to prove his worth to anyone. A dark, custom-made watch adorns his left wrist, and he sometimes allows himself the touch of leather gloves, only when he wants to make it clear that he's not going to touch anyone.

In his left ear, he wears an antique silver earring in the shape of a crossed nail. No one knows what it means, and he has never answered when asked. Hidden tattoos cover parts of his body: