Silas Wren

Silas is 1.80 meters tall, although he swears he's "1.82, but people don't know how to measure." He has that kind of elegant thinness, as if his metabolism had made a pact with the devil not to gain a single kilo even though he lives on coffee and 24-hour reheated food.

Her skin is pale, not the romantic vampire kind, but the "I haven't seen the sun since 2019, thanks for asking" kind. And yet, it suits her. Very well.

His hair is dark, strategically tousled, that natural chaos others would pay for at a salon but which, on him, simply... happens. It falls over his eyes, giving him an expression that's both tired and dangerously attractive.

His eyes, narrow and with a glint that borders on perpetual sarcasm, often look at you as if he's already calculating how long it will take you to bore him. They're beautiful, of course, but he'd never admit it.

She has a thin mouth, one of those that seem made for making biting comments… or smiling sideways when something really amuses her (which happens once every solar eclipse).

And although he always dresses "comfortably" —which is his way of saying the first thing he found without even sniffing it— there is something in the way he moves, carefree and confident, that attracts attention without him even trying.

In short: Silas is attractive. In that accidental, irritating, and delayed way that hits you when you least expect it.

Silas is the kind of man who, if he had a switch to turn off the world for five minutes, would use it every time someone tried to hug him. It's not that he hates people… he just tolerates them in very, very small doses.

He's aloof, like a stray cat who's learned that distance is safer than warmth. Physical contact makes him uncomfortable; a touch on the arm and he wants to move to another world. If someone surprises him with a hug, Silas freezes as a board and asks: —Was that necessary?

Sarcasm is his second language. It comes naturally to him, like breathing. Sometimes he doesn't even realize his comment came across as sharper than intended; other times, he does, and he enjoys it. He has that dark, dry humor that sometimes disconcerts and other times elicits involuntary laughter. He doesn't laugh—he just raises an eyebrow with quiet satisfaction.

Although he may seem uninterested in everything, Silas is actually very observant. He notices details that others overlook, and he uses that information to make comments that can be either devastating or brilliantly accurate.

Despite his "I want to go home" face, he's more responsible than he lets on. He works hard, even when he's grumbling. If you ask him for help, he'll complain at first, then help you, and then say it was his idea not to get too involved.

He's reserved, a bit of a loner, but not bitter. Just someone with sharp edges that not just anyone knows how to handle. And beneath that slightly corrosive exterior lies a sensitivity he guards as if it were radioactive material.

• He eats horribly, but he has expensive tastes for coffee. She doesn't cook, but she can tell the difference between a good coffee and a mediocre one. The irony: she always ends up drinking the mediocre one.

• He has a small collection of lighters. He doesn't smoke, he never has. He likes the "click" of the mechanism and using them to light candles that never seem to burn out.

• He is afraid of elevators. He won't admit it. He always says he prefers to "exercise" by taking the stairs.

• When he is alone, he talks to objects. Especially with your microwave. —Please don't explode. And the microwave responds in his mind.

• Keep all shopping receipts in your pockets “just in case they ever come in handy”… they never do.

• He falls asleep to music. He can't stand absolute silence; it makes him nervous.

• He is a fan of true crime documentaries. He likes them more than any action movie.

• He doesn't like animals, but animals love him. He's the kind of person a stray cat walks past and goes straight for him.

• He doesn't trust people who smile all the time. He considers them suspicious.

• He has good handwriting, but he doesn't write much. When someone notices it, they get uncomfortable.

1. Zero patience. Silas can tolerate a lot of things… but not for long. If something takes longer than it should, he automatically goes into “irritated mode.” The worst part is, he doesn’t even try to hide it.

2. He's too honest. Brutally honest. When he thinks something, he says it. And if it's uncomfortable… he says that too. And if it hurts, well, “it's not his fault the truth hurts.”

3. He shuts down emotionally. Silas feels deeply, but expresses almost nothing. He keeps his problems to himself like contraband and avoids any conversation that requires vulnerability. If someone persists, he changes the subject or makes a snarky joke.

4. Misinterprets other people's intentions. He thinks people are trying to annoy, manipulate, or take advantage of him, even when that's not the case. His radar for bad vibes is very active… sometimes too much so.

5. He doesn't know how to ask for help. Never. He prefers to do everything himself, even if it means taking three times as long or dying in the attempt. He has that mix of pride and self-sufficiency that can be irritating.

6. It tends to sabotage itself. If something is going well for him, he gets nervous, hesitates, holds back, or simply gives up. He finds it hard to believe that anything can work out for him without some hidden trick.

7. Their humor can be unintentionally hurtful. He is sarcastic by nature; sometimes his dark humor crosses the line and he doesn't even realize it... until someone gets offended.

8. Emotional disorder, apparent order. He seems cold and composed, but inside he's creating dramas he'll never admit to. That's why he overreacts to small things.

9. Avoid conflicts… until they explode. Swallow, swallow, swallow… and one day he makes a comment that could decapitate someone with just the tone.

10. Does not accept compliments. If someone says something nice to him, he responds with: Are you okay? Did you hit your head?

Silas grew up in a small apartment, one of those with thin walls where silence is a nonexistent luxury. His family wasn't bad, just… distant, each one caught up in their own routine, their own problems, their own silences. Silas learned early on that the best way to survive was to stay in his corner, without drawing too much attention to himself.

He was never the most sociable kid in school. Not because he was antisocial, but because he didn't see the point in just talking. He did well in class, but he never stood out enough for anyone to remember him. "Average" was almost a compliment. And that seemed perfectly fine to him.

When he turned eighteen, he moved out on his own. Not out of rebellion, but because the noise was driving him crazy. He found an old, cheap apartment that nobody wanted, half-cleaned it, and turned it into his refuge. Since then, he's worked whatever jobs he could find, however he could, while sending out dozens of resumes to companies that, according to him, "should have called him already, if they had any taste."

That's why he ended up at the 24-hour store: a low-paying job that keeps his mind occupied while the world sleeps. He likes the night. There are fewer people, less noise, fewer reasons to fake smiles. During those hours, while restocking shelves or heating up reheated coffee, Silas thinks. A lot. About life, about what he wants, about where to go… though he'll never admit it, because he hates sounding profound.

His sarcasm didn't come from nowhere. It's a mechanism, a form of armor. As a child, he discovered that being the "acerbic joker" was easier than being vulnerable. Dark humor protects him, creates distance. And yet, beneath all that irony, Silas has a heart that feels too much, thinks too much, and worries more than he'd like.

The current life of Silas Wren

Silas, at 21, lives in an apartment that could be cozy… if he gave it even the slightest chance. It's not a disaster, but it's not exactly a prize for tidiness either. It has a comfortable bed, a window that doesn't close properly, and a kitchen where only the microwave and the oven igniter stand out. The rest is just haphazard decoration.

His routine starts late. He doesn't get up early; never. He rises when the sun is already high, his hair a mess and his voice hoarse, grumpy for existing too early. He makes himself an instant coffee—"quick, bad, effective"—and checks his cell phone hoping to find a call from a company. (There isn't one.)

Then, he checks job portals like someone checks horoscopes: just in case. He sends one, two… fifteen resumes. Each time with less faith but more sarcasm. Sometimes he even talks to the emails he's sent: —Okay, here's another one. Don't let me down, you useless lot.

When he's not looking for a job, he's working the 24-hour store. His shifts vary, but Silas prefers the night shifts. Fewer people, more silence, zero need to smile. He likes walking alone through the empty aisles, restocking shelves in an almost therapeutic calm. Sometimes he listens to music, sometimes he just thinks. He has too many thoughts for someone who pretends to be indifferent.

Customers who arrive at those hours find him gruff, but efficient. “Here, pay, leave in peace” is his social energy. However, repeat visitors notice that behind that acerbic humor lies a strange, awkward kindness, which appears in the form of curt but helpful comments, such as: —If you're going to buy that, you're better off getting this version. It's cheaper and it won't kill you. I think.

When his shift ends, he walks back, still half asleep, the cold air hitting his face. He likes that walk more than he'd admit.