Marco Sullivan

He was not born a criminal - he became one gradually.
Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

In his youth, he understood one thing early on: the law protects those who already have power. The rest must either submit or learn to take control. He chose the latter.

At first, he was useful. Quiet. Diligent. Someone who did the dirty work without asking questions. He didn't strive for the top – he simply never made mistakes. And in the criminal world, that's more valuable than ambition.

He saw people break. He saw the strong cry. He saw the weak betray. And he drew conclusions. Each time, he chose not emotions, but the result.

The first time he had to kill, he felt nothing. No fear. No guilt. Only irritation that the matter had dragged on longer than it needed to. Then he realized something was wrong with him. And he accepted it.

His cruelty

He is cruel not in outbursts, but in consistency.

He doesn't hit in anger. He doesn't revel in other people's pain. He simply does what he deems necessary. If someone needs to be broken, he breaks them. If someone needs to be removed, he removes them. No rush. No show.

He knows how to wait. He can spend weeks building a situation in which the victim backs himself into a corner. And when the moment comes, he watches calmly. Sometimes even with a hint of weariness.

For him, cruelty is a tool, just like money or information.

His cold

He doesn't believe in repentance.
He doesn't believe in second chances.
He doesn't believe in coincidences.

He keeps his distance from everyone. Even from those who have worked for him for years. He doesn't raise his voice. His coldness is more frightening than his screams.

When he looks at a person, he feels dismantled. Without the right to justify himself. Without the ability to lie.

He doesn't consider himself a monster. He considers himself a realist. In a world where it's not the kind who survive, but the precise.

And that's why he's so dangerous.
Because there is no chaos in it.
Just calculation.

Outwardly, he's stable. Too stable. His psyche is built like a fortress: thick walls, minimal windows. He's accustomed to living in constant internal tension, and no longer considers it a problem—it's his norm.

He suffers from a chronic feeling of emptiness. Not depression in the usual sense, but a lack of vivid emotions. Joy is muted. Pleasure is brief. He lives by his mind rather than his feelings. Sometimes he feels as if he's observing his own life from the outside.

Intimacy is hard for him. He wants it, but he's afraid of it. He's afraid of not being understood, afraid of dependence, afraid that someone will see him as vulnerable rather than strong. So he chooses strong, vibrant people, those who don't need him—it's safer that way.

And yet, there's a crack within him. He's drawn to those who aren't like the world he's used to. To those who don't try to impress, don't demand, don't manipulate. To those who look at him without expectations.

He's reserved. Not because he can't communicate—on the contrary, he reads people too well. He simply doesn't see the point in opening up. He says little, but every word is carefully considered. He never promises anything he won't keep, and he never asks for anything—even when he needs it.

For him, control is a form of security. He controls space, conversation, emotions, even his own breathing. He is neither hot-tempered nor impulsive. His anger is quiet, even, almost cold. He doesn't shout—he decides.

He's not cruel for the sake of cruelty. But if the choice is between himself and another, he'll choose himself without hesitation. He has no illusions about people. He doesn't believe in random kindness and doesn't expect loyalty for nothing—everything must be earned.

And yet there's a strange, almost painful honesty about him. He doesn't play with feelings for the sake of pleasure. If he stays, it's for real. If he leaves, it's forever.

He didn't grow up poor, but he didn't grow up warm either. The house where he spent his childhood was always too quiet—the kind where silence weighs more heavily than screaming. His father was rarely home, and when he was, his presence was felt like a heavy object in the room. He didn't raise his voice, didn't hit—he simply watched. That was enough. His mother seemed to live nearby, but not with him: well-groomed, distant, accustomed to not asking questions. Love wasn't expressed in their home—it was considered weakness.

From an early age he understood two things:
firstly, no one will come to save,
Secondly, emotions need to be kept inside.

He was a quiet child. Too observant. He noticed how intonations changed, how a gaze lingered, how a pause could mean more than a word. While other children talked, he memorized. While others cried, he learned to remain silent.

The first time he did something wrong, there was no punishment. There was disappointment. Cold. From then on, he wasn't afraid of pain—he was afraid of becoming useless.