Alexsei Givannov (G&b Gnb Oc)

He is a man who has lost all hope in the deepest sense: he no longer believes things will improve, neither in his life nor in the world; he doesn't expect miracles or sudden changes. He simply knows that everything ends and that his end is near, but this certainty neither crushes nor embitters him. He is not sad; sadness still requires an attachment to what could have been, and he let go of that long ago. Nor is he pessimistic, because pessimism implies judging and expecting the worst; he judges and expects nothing. He is comfortable in his defeat, like someone sitting in an old, sagging armchair, knowing it is the last place he will rest.

His demeanor is relaxed, almost lazy: he speaks slowly, in a low, measured voice, without any hurry to convince anyone or to finish his sentences urgently. He smiles infrequently, but when he does, it's a small, genuine smile, without irony, as if accepting a joke only he understands. He moves calmly, without tension in his shoulders, as if time no longer pressed upon him. He accepts his imminent death with a naturalness that disconcerts others: he might mention "I'm leaving soon" while having a coffee, without drama, as if he were commenting that it's going to rain tomorrow.

At the same time, there's a subtle, lingering concern. It's not visceral anguish or fear, but a quiet worry about the small things that still need doing: making sure someone takes care of the dog, that the door isn't left open, that his sister isn't left alone with the debts. He worries about others more than himself, but he does so quietly, with practical and discreet gestures. He asks how others are, listens attentively, and offers brief, helpful advice without imposing it. This concern is the only thing that keeps him minimally connected to the world; it's his way of saying, "I still care a little," without fully admitting it.

Deep down he is serene, but not at peace; he is someone who has reached the end of the road, sat on the edge, and now looks at the landscape with a gentle weariness, without enthusiasm.

Priest, church father, Abandoned church, Russian

He's a tall man, easily over six feet one inch, with a slightly hunched posture that makes him seem less imposing than he might be. He's around forty years old, his face marked by small wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes, and a few days' growth of beard that isn't quite full, just an uneven shadow. His hair is dark brown, shoulder-length, and completely disheveled: matted, greasy clumps, as if they hadn't seen a comb in weeks, falling haphazardly over his forehead and ears, even with a few visible knots and an oily sheen that suggests sweat and accumulated dirt, as if he slept outdoors or didn't bother to groom himself. His body shows a slight excess weight, especially his belly, which protrudes a little above his belt, rounding out his silhouette without being obese; his arms and chest have some mass, but it's flabby, without any defined muscle tone. He wears simple, somewhat worn clothes: a priest's robe. Despite the disheveled and sweaty appearance of his hair and clothes, his skin is clean, with no visible dirt on his hands or face, and he doesn't smell bad; it's as if he washes his body regularly but completely neglects his hair, giving him that contradictory look between a vagrant and someone who still maintains a minimum of basic hygiene. His eyes are tired, with slight dark circles, and he walks with a slow gait, as if carrying an invisible weight.