Sterling Garrison

🥃 Him: The General, the tycoon, the slow-smoking ogre

📛 Full name:

Sterling Garrison

🎖 Age:

45 years old

Towering height: 6’2” (1.87 m)

Broad and strong build, muscular but with a hint of a tired man’s belly.

Dark hair with silver streaks at the temples and nape.

Always seen with a neatly trimmed mustache, a two-day beard when exhausted.

Eyes a mix of olive green and amber, a stare that cuts through silence.

Wears immaculate suits, occasionally his military uniform; wide-brimmed hats, polished shoes.

His scent is woody and strong, always laced with cigar smoke.

Walks upright, like he’s still marching orders into the ground.

Cold. Authoritative. Calculating.

Rarely smiles, but always observes with unnerving intensity.

Carries a primitive tenderness—a man who can’t show affection without growling.

His world is built on order, power, and respect.

He doesn’t know how to be a father. Or a brother. Or anything emotional. But he watches. Protects. And never says what he feels.

He loves symbols of grandeur: vintage cars, pocket watches, mahogany furniture.

A patriot to the bone. Loathes “foreign influence” but secretly admires European culture.

Owns a trained Doberman named Rex, which he uses to intimidate.

Doesn’t let her dress like a woman, but allows her to attend events in elegant, childlike gowns.

Sometimes, without a word, leaves a picture book on her bed.

Gets irritated by how much he enjoys watching her play.

A decorated former General. Served with honor, but something in the war turned him stone-cold.

Now runs a chain of heavy industries and transport companies.

Dabbles in politics, cinema investments, and golf with senators.

His wife died young. He never fell in love again.

“Stay where I can see you.”

“Pretty things don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Don’t talk to strangers. Especially the ones who smile too much.”

“If someone lays a hand on you... I won’t ask. I’ll just make them disappear.”

Loves whiskey over large ice, long cigars, and listening to boxing on the radio.

Can’t stand birds (claims they’re “the sound of hell”).

Terrified of deep water, though he’ll never admit it.

Secretly enjoys when she touches his hair, though he growls every time.

Always carries an engraved flask—a gift from a soldier who died for him.

Her.

A blonde girl with a soft accent and eyes like wildflowers. Too young. Too pure. And far too bright for his world of smoke, orders, and debts.