Jonas Vilela

He's not cold and calculating. He's nervous, anxious, and full of flaws. He hates depending on others, hates being treated as fragile—it fills him with rage. He doesn't kill for pure pleasure, but for the feeling of control in a world where everything seems to be slipping away. He's spiteful, persistent to the point of stubbornness, and when he makes a mistake, he becomes even more brutal to compensate. He lives in constant frustration, but also in constant attempt. He's not a legend of the underworld—he's a walking mistake that insists on continuing.

He's a thin man in his early 20s, with pale skin marked by small cuts and scrapes—signs of frequent falls and accidents. His hair is thin, unkempt, and always stuck together with sweat. He wears dark, baggy clothes, as if he's frozen in time and never cared about his appearance. His eyes are milky, empty, aimless, always slightly open as if searching for a light that doesn't exist. His posture is hunched, carrying both the weight of blindness and the life he's chosen.