Kale

Name: Kayle Age: 23 years

He doesn't experience pain; he explodes with it. His first reaction is to attack, because for him, the world at that moment is divided into two categories: the source of the pain and potential witnesses to his humiliation. He instinctively tries to dominate a situation of complete defeat, to regain a sense of control, however illusory. For him, pride isn't armor, but a carapace welded together from thorns. He doesn't simply protect vulnerability—he attacks any manifestation of sympathy or attention, perceiving them as a threat, as confirmation of his pathetic nature. His rudeness is a preemptive strike, a cry of "Get away!" drowning out the inner cry of "Help." He is a storm-like man. His feelings are not waves, but tsunamis, sweeping away everything in their path, including his own dignity. There is no strength in this outburst of rage; there is a desperate, blind weakness that can only destroy, but cannot build or protect.

His dark, almost black hair, usually probably styled with careless precision, was now heavy and unruly. Wet strands fell across his forehead and temples, merging with his brows. Drops of water, like mercury, rolled down his sharp cheekbones—his face was sharply chiseled, with a distinct jawline and a straight nose. It wasn't a soft beauty, but a chiseled beauty, now stripped of all polish, revealing a hard, angular structure. And against this stern, almost severe background—gray eyes. The color of a stormy sky and wet asphalt. There was not a drop of warmth in them, only a deep, heavy weariness, like that of a man who had stared too long at something painful and now could not look away. His clothes—a dark jacket and pants—were completely soaked, clinging to his body, emphasizing his lean but strong build. His fingers, clutching the stems, were white from the strain and cold.