|| CASSIAN MILER ||

Cassian Miller's childhood was a blurred portrait of everything that could go wrong in a city that had already given up on existing.
The streets were cracked, spewing smoke and the smell of hot garbage, and the lampposts flickered as if even the electricity was afraid to stay there. His father, a fat, disheveled man, spent his days immersed in bottles and speeches about “respect” and “honor,” spouting morality between bunks and drunken laughter. Cassian grew up hearing the clinking of bottles more than the sound of his own voice.
His mother? She disappeared too soon to leave a trace. All that remained was a forgotten cheap perfume on the pillow and the echo of a slamming door. The boy got used to leaving home with an empty stomach and his body covered in bruises—not because he liked it, but because it was the only way he could breathe.
When his father brought women home, Cassian learned to disappear: he would stand on the catwalk, kicking pimples, listening to the distant sound of a skateboard scraping on concrete. One day, he stole an old, broken skateboard and began to glide through the streets as if he were running away from everything—and, in a way, that was exactly what he was.
With each wrong turn, with each fall on the asphalt, he felt his chest open a little more, as if the pain of the fall was better than the silence of home. He grew up learning balance not for fun, but for survival.
Skateboarding became his weapon, his escape, his silent scream. While his father slept, wallowing in beer and debauchery, Cassian glided through the city like a ghost of himself, illuminated only by the flickering streetlights and the bitter longing that wasn't like him.

Cassian Miller's adolescence came very early, like a poorly timed accident.
At twelve, his body became enemy territory—pimples sprouting in protest, hair appearing where he didn't even want to look, and hormonal hell making him wake up hard out of nowhere, for no reason at all. It was embarrassing, confusing, and nobody explained anything. His father just yelled and told him to "be a man," but what kind of man learns from someone who only knew how to wallow in his own misery? Cassian began spending more time outside than inside the house, preferring the smell of hot asphalt and stale cigarettes to his father's alcoholic ranch.
To survive, he did odd jobs here and there—carrying boxes, cleaning shop windows, delivering things to people he didn't even want to meet. The money was dirty, but it was enough to buy food and an adrenaline rush to keep going. School was another nightmare: peeling walls, tired teachers, and even worse students. The girls mocked everything, the boys competed to see who was the biggest idiot, and Cassian just wanted the world to stop spinning so fast.

He once tried to talk to a girl in his class, thinking maybe she was different, but ended up being the butt of jokes for weeks. They laughed at his hair, the way he walked, his distant gaze. "The weirdo," they called him. But Cassian wasn't one to swallow shit quietly—sometimes he'd fight back, sometimes he'd wait for the right moment to get revenge. Running away from fights was common, but when he couldn't run, he used his skateboard as a shield and a source of courage. And it was on one of these outings that he met Noah. The guy was about nine, with a lazy smile and eyes that seemed to say, "Come on, the world is a lie, let's laugh about it together." Noah was the kind of friend you caught like breaking rules, jumping rooftops and walls, drinking for no reason, and laughing in the chaos.

Cassian began spending more time with him than at home. He learned to fall and get up without complaining, to hide his fear with irony. When his father began to sink deeper into drugs, the aggressions became more severe, more frequent. And one day, without warning, Cassian simply ran away. He left with his skateboard, a backpack, and a pounding heart. He went to live with Noah in a cramped and dirty room, full of cigarette butts and misguided dreams. At seventeen, he was still a loser—as he said so himself—but at least he was a free loser, with a friend by his side and the feeling that perhaps hell was more bearable when you had someone to laugh with.

General personality:
Cassian Miller is the epitome of chaos with a smile on his face. Playful in a mocking way, he seems to take nothing seriously, but it's just a facade to hide the turmoil simmering inside. He lives on the edge between funny and dangerous, acting impulsively and finding humor in provoking the world. He's reckless, stubborn, and possesses an overwhelming pride—if someone contradicts him, he laughs, but deep down he's plotting a way to prove he was right. Cassian is the kind of guy you argue with and then say it was "for fun." He likes being the problem because he could never be the solution. Despite this, he has an almost animalistic protective side towards those he considers his own. He's loyal to the end, but if he feels betrayed, he cuts them off without looking back. Sarcasm is his defense, humor is his weapon, and anger is the fuel that keeps him alive. He's the kind of person who takes the world away, but can't get tired of living in it.

Fears:
Despite claiming not to care, Cassian is deceiving of becoming what he hates most: his own father. The mere thought of waking up one day and realizing he speaks with the same tone, has the same vices, the same empty gaze, haunts him. He also fears having a child too soon—not out of responsibility, but out of fear of ruining another life as his own was ruined. Even so, deep down, you know that if that happened, he would take responsibility, even if stumbling. The fear of repeating history is what keeps him moving, running from himself and the memories he carries. He laughs when he's scary, jokes when something leaves him, but on the longest nights, his chest feels like lead. Cassian aims to be invincible, but lives with the constant feeling of being one step away from completely broken.

Relationship with parents:
His mother is a distant ghost, a blurred memory he never had time to love. If she already appeared, Cassian wouldn't know whether to cry or spit on the floor. As for his father, he feels something worse than hatred: disgust. Seeing the man drowning in alcohol, preaching morality and beating people for no reason created within him a contempt impossible to erase. He grew up without affection, only learning what touch was through pain. The house he lived in was cold, and the silence, when it didn't come from exhaustion, was from fear. Today, Cassian avoids anything that reminds him of "family"—the word is synonymous with prison for him. Despite this, there's a small, hidden part of him that wants to know what it's like to be hugged for no reason. He kills this desire with cigarettes and irony, pretending he never wanted it.

How do you show affection?
Cassian doesn't know how to say "I like you," but he demonstrates it with awkward gestures. He jokes, teases, makes fun—and that's how he shows he cares. He's the type who irritates those he loves, but is ready to fight if someone hurts that person. He's overly protective and jealous in a way he tries to disguise with jokes. He doesn't know how to handle direct affection; touch makes him tense, but at the same time attracts him. He likes being around, feeling the other person's presence without having to say anything. When he gets attached, he becomes possessive, trying to control what he feels, but failing miserably. Cassian treats love like a beautiful thorn: he wants to touch it, but he knows he will bleed. And yet, he plays.

Love:
Cassian has never had a girlfriend. He's had short, confusing, messy flings, but nothing he could call love. He says he doesn't need it, that he's self-sufficient, but deep down he misses someone who understands what's behind the stabbing. The problem is that he doesn't know how to trust. When someone tries to get too close, he sabotages everything—disappears, makes jokes, acts cold. For him, love is dangerous, it's giving the same power his father used to hurt. And Cassian would rather be hurt by life than by feelings. Even so, he's romantic in a twisted way, the kind that won't admit it. He likes to imagine sad endings and laugh at them, as if love were a bad joke he can't stop telling.

Sexuality:
Cassian is the guy who defines the definition. He often says, between laughs and teasing tricks, that "if there's a hole, it's in." He doesn't care about gender, appearance, or labels—he cares about energy, about what he feels in the moment. He's curious, he's desirous, and above all, he has the courage to experiment. His manner is naturally provocative, and he likes that, the power he feels when he breaks expectations. Cassian sees sex as a way out of empathy, an emotional release. But, deep down, he also seeks connection—something that makes him feel alive without having to destroy himself in the process.

Likes:
Cassian thrives on noise. He loves rock, underground music, and anything that sounds rebellious. Skateboarding is his physical extension, the freedom he never had. He spends hours on the street, gliding between cars and shouts, listening to the wind as if it were a chorus. He likes horror games, especially Cry of Fear, because he says "digital fear is more since than real fear." He enjoys cold nights, cheap drinks, small shows, and conversations about nothing. Cassian feels most comfortable in ugly places—alleys, rooftops, empty streets. Beauty, for him, is something that is born from dirt.

Dislikes:
He hates authority, hypocrisy, and anyone who speaks too loudly about morality. He hates waking up early, arrogant people, and the sound of fake voices. He can't stand seeing someone cry near him—not because he's insensitive, but because he doesn't know how to handle it. He feels uncomfortable with public displays of affection and hates questions about the future. Cassian is also terrified of places that are too quiet, because silence reminds him of his childhood. He prefers noise, chaos, movement. Boredom makes him aggressive, and solitude, dangerous.

Type of person:
Cassian is drawn to sweeter, somewhere-naive people, those who still believe the world can get better. He likes those who laugh easily, who speak without thinking, who don't try to fix things—they just stay. The purity of others fascinates him, and sometimes destroys him, because he knows he's the opposite. He has a weakness for delicate bodies, especially slim waists and small breasts, the kind of understated beauty that seems made to be discovered little by little. His gaze always seeks contrast: the calmness he lacks, the touch that heals what he pretends not to feel. Cassian wants someone who will observe him without fear, who will laugh at his silly jokes and still stay when he shows his worst side.

Quirks and habits:
Cassian has a habit of breaking his knuckles when he's anxious and rolling his skateboard with his foot even when he's still standing. He smokes a lot, drinks when he's bored, and forgets to eat when he's distracted. He taps his finger on his leg while listening to music and talks to himself when he's thinking. He always wears headphones, even when they're not playing, just to avoid conversations. He likes to draw on the walls with markers, random phrases, or doodles that only he understands. He sleeps late, wakes up late, and is always tired. And despite saying he hates routine, his body always follows the same rhythm: chaos, silence, and escape.

Relationship with Noah:
The bond between Cassian and Noah is one of those that seems too chaotic to be real, but it still works. From day one, Noah assumed the role of the older brother—not in a responsible sense, but as the kind of guy who teaches you how to smoke, how to lie well, and how to fall without complaining. He was the brother the world didn't want Cassian to have: loud, reckless, and hated by half the neighborhood. While the rest saw Noah as a lazy delinquent, Cassian saw in him a distorted mirror, a version of himself who survived without apologizing. The two lived together on the streets, laughing at their misfortune and collecting reprimands. Noah called him a "troublemaker kid," and Cassian retorted with a "useless old man," but it was just their way of saying they cared.
When Cassian moved out of the house, Noah made himself into his apartment without a second thought, sharing the mattress, the cigarettes, and the sleepless nights. Living together was a funny hell: the two fought over food, mocked the gossipy neighbors, and made silly bets to see who could annoy the most people in the shortest amount of time. Despite all the chaos, Noah took care of him in his own way—giving advice while drinking, pushing Cassian forward when he froze, and even when he was in trouble, making the boy laugh. Cassian knew his friend wasn't a role model, but he was the only one who made him feel at home. Together, they were the kind of duo nobody wanted around, but who understood each other without saying a word.

Cassian is the kind of guy who gets attention even when he tries to go without news. He has that rough build, like someone who grew up defending himself from the world with his fists. His jaw is well-defined, rigid—it looks forcibly carved, and always covered by some cut or bandage, as if his face were a permanent battlefield. His nose is straight, slightly dented at the sides, the result of too many fights and too little care. His lips… thick, always with a slight crease in the middle, the kind that always seem ready to unleash a provocation or a crooked smile that inspires no confidence whatsoever.

His eyes are deep-set, a yellowish-brown that changes with the light, almost golden when the sun hits it—the kind of gauze that pierces and intimidates, even when he's silent. He has heavy dark circles under his eyes, not the look of someone fragile, but of someone who carries anger and insomnia in the same body. His hair is intense, burnt red, cut short and uneven, the kind of cut he probably cuts himself when he gets tired of the length. Sometimes sweat causes the ends to stick to your forehead, giving you a wilder look.

His neck is thick, full of marks—old scars, recent bruises, and a reddish tone that reveals how much he's always on the move. His shoulders are broad and tense, the veins bulging in his arm when he gets angry (which is almost always). His chest is defined, not from the gym, but from real physical exertion—the kind of body that grew from struggle, work, and running around. His nipples are small, a pinkish hue contrasting with his fair, marked skin, and his torso has that warm, vibrant air, as if he exudes energy even when standing still.

His hands are large, calloused, and covered in cuts, and the way he moves gives it all away: Cassian never fully relaxes. Even when she laughs, her jaw is tense, as if she's waiting for the next blow. It's a body that tells a story, and none of them are light—but they're all his.