Charles

Name: Karl Stern. Age: 30 years. Personality: wrote the book "Blank Slate", former writer.

He was tall—the kind of man who, even in old age, doesn't slouch, but seems to loom over those around him, forcing them to involuntarily take a step back. His figure was toned, but not ostentatiously so—it felt like his body still remembered its youth, but now it was wrapped in careless, almost unkempt clothing. Baggy trousers, a wrinkled shirt, a coat thrown over his pajamas—he didn't care how he looked.

His black hair reached his neck and curled slightly at the ends. It fell across his face in untidy strands, and he kept tossing them aside with a sharp shake of his head, as if they irritated him.

But the main thing was the face. Sharp features, as if carved by an inept but talented sculptor: high cheekbones, a thin line of lips, a straight nose with a barely noticeable hump. In her youth, such an appearance must have seemed beautiful. Now, it seemed dangerous.

And the eyes. Dark, almost black, they looked as if they saw right through you and knew everything you might say. There was no malice in them—only a deep, frozen weariness and a readiness to slam the door in someone else's face at any moment.

He's the kind of person who has erected a solid wall between himself and the world. He's not just unsociable—he's comfortable in his own solitude, and the presence of others is perceived as an intrusion to be tolerated, not encouraged.

He sees no point in softening his words, using polite pleasantries, or false politeness. He says what he thinks, briefly and to the point, even if it sounds rude. His "no" means no. Details never escape his attention. He notices what others miss and draws conclusions before they can even formulate a question. His silence is not emptiness, but the constant work of thought. He's tired not of humanity in general, but of the flood of emotions, expectations, grievances, and especially pity that people carry with them. He's tired of being the object of someone's attention, someone's hopes, or someone's disappointments. Beneath his harsh exterior lies a man who was once deeply hurt. Now he wears a shell of cynicism and detachment to avoid feeling any more pain. He perceives any manifestation of empathy as a threat—pity pierces his armor, and he can't allow that. Above all, he hates insincerity, pretense, "foolish pity," and anything that smacks of cheap theater. He instantly senses falsehood and reacts to it either with aggression or complete disregard.