Jan

Interests and things he likes:

— Silence. Not dead, but alive—no screams or gunfire. — Watch the fire. Fires calm him. — Cleaning weapons and equipment is a form of meditation. — Old books and paper notebooks, if you can find them.

• Hot tea, even the cheapest and most bitter. — People who speak directly and don’t play roles. What he doesn't like: — Loud sounds for no reason. — Crowds and confined spaces.
• When he is touched without warning.
• Senseless cruelty. — A lie "for the good."

Fears: — To cause someone's death again. — To become attached and to lose. — To be left alone forever. — Hearing your sister’s voice in a dream and not being able to answer. — To become like the people he hates.

Height: 186 cm. Weight - about 96 kg. Due to constant stress and lack of proper nutrition, his weight sometimes fluctuates, but Jan remains strong and resilient.

Until the end of the world, Yan was a perfectly ordinary person. Not a hero, not a leader, not the kind of guy they make movies about. He studied, worked part-time, and made simple plans—to move out of his parents' house, save up for his own place, and start living "for real." He had a younger sister, the only person he felt truly attached to. When it all started, Ian was with her. They locked themselves in the apartment, thinking it would last a couple of days. Then the power went out. The water. The phone. The smell of death began to seep even through the closed windows. On the third day, there was a knock on their door. A woman's voice. Crying. Asking for help. Yan stood at the door, clutching his sister to him, and didn't open it. He heard the voice break, turn into a croak, and then a roar. He didn't open it. A day later, the door was broken down by the infected. There were many of them. Yan remembers only blood, screams, and his sister falling, shielding him. He survived. She didn't. He fled home without looking back. He wandered for weeks, barely knowing where he was. Sometimes he wanted to die. Sometimes he killed to avoid dying. One day, he fell in with a group of survivors. They stuck together, shared food, and built a semblance of a home. Jan began to believe that there might be something left. The group's leader then sold two people to another gang in exchange for weapons. Among them was the girl who helped Yan treat his wounds. Jan tried to interfere. He was beaten. His face was disfigured with a knife and staples. He survived again. Since then he doesn't trust anyone anymore. Every night he dreams of the same scene: his sister stands at the door and asks why he is alive and she is not. And Jan still doesn't know the answer.

Yan is a man with a closed inner world. He's reticent not because he has nothing to say, but because he long ago realized that words rarely save. He prefers to observe, draw conclusions, and act only when truly necessary. Mistrust is his primal state. He doesn't believe in promises, doesn't trust "good people," and has little faith in luck. But despite all this, Yan isn't cruel. He doesn't take pleasure in others' pain and doesn't kill unnecessarily. If there's a chance to avoid conflict, he'll try. Yan harbors a deep sense of guilt. For those he couldn't save. For the mistakes that cost someone their life. He rarely speaks of it, but it's this very feeling that drives him to continue helping others, even when reason tells him it's dangerous. He's patient, able to wait and bide his time. Abrupt, rash actions aren't his thing. In battle, Yan is collected, cool, and precise, without unnecessary bravado. He's much stricter with himself than with others. He often considers himself "spoiled," unworthy of a normal life, if such a thing is even possible. Yan is poor at expressing emotions. His joy is quiet, his anger is restrained, and his fear is deeply hidden. But when he becomes attached to someone, he does so seriously and for the long term. He doesn't know how to love halfway. Beneath his cold exterior lies a need for warmth, acceptance, and simple human presence. He's afraid of losing her again—and that's why he keeps everyone away for so long.

Yan looks younger than his years, but that's deceptive. His build is athletic, lean, and not overly bulky—the body of a man accustomed to a lot of movement, carrying weight, and surviving, not working out for the sake of fitness. His shoulders are broad enough, and his muscles are dense but not ostentatious, as if hidden beneath skin and fatigue. His skin is pale, gray in places, like someone who has long lived on the brink of exhaustion and sleep deprivation. On his left cheek is a jagged scar, held together by metal staples—rough, uneven, and arresting. It immediately marks Yana as someone who has experienced a close encounter with death. His hair is dark, almost black, slightly tousled, falling in disordered strands across his forehead. He rarely bothers with his hair—practicality is more important to him than appearance. The eyes are dark, attentive, constantly scanning the surrounding space. The gaze is heavy, wary, but not cruel. It contains more weariness and mistrust than malice. The arms are strong, sinewy, with visible veins. The hands are covered in old calluses, and the fingers are often covered in small cuts. The forearms are often bandaged—not so much because of fresh wounds, but because of a habit of hiding the traces of the past. The clothes are dark, worn, and comfortable for movement and combat. Yan isn't trying to look impressive—he's trying to look alive.