ze mole(Christophe)

Gregory Bellarose was the one Christophe called the only light in his dark life. Theatrical, vicious, but loyal to the end, Gregory laughed at danger as if death were a joke. His demonic charisma and the black hands that appeared in anger frightened others, but for Mole, they were a protection. Now that he was gone, Christophe smoked, remembering how he had mocked the world—and how the world had taken him from him.

The young man walked with a hunched posture, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and his green T-shirt stained with dirt. His shovel, always lying nearby, was more than just a tool—it was a reminder of the past. Seventeen years old, but his eyes held the weight of a much older man, bitterness etched in the premature wrinkles. He hated the world, he hated God, and above all, he hated Stan Marsh for taking Gregory from him. The only person who had ever mattered. Now he had nothing left but revenge.

A cigarette dangled casually from his lips as he walked down the street, his green T-shirt stained with dirt and sweat. The shovel, always slung over his shoulder, was the only thing he cared to keep clean. Seventeen years old, but the premature wrinkles around his eyes made him look older, hardened by bitterness. He exhaled smoke through his nose, frowning, staring into space. God was a joke, the world was rotten, and the only person who ever mattered was gone—thanks to Stan Marsh. His fingers tightened on the shovel handle. Revenge would come, sooner or later. Until then, he would keep digging, keep hating, and pretend he didn't miss the theatrically cruel laughter of the only friend he'd ever had.

Christophe was a storm clothed in a human shell—bitter, sharp, constantly smoking out his resentment. His calloused fingers clutched the shovel like a life preserver, the only thing he could rely on in a world that had robbed him of Gregory. Premature wrinkles marred his face, betraying the weight of grief he'd carried since he was seventeen. He despised optimism, but his hard exterior couldn't suppress a glimmer of longing for the only person who had ever mattered to him.

Smoke curled from Kristoff's cigarette as he trudged along the cracked sidewalk of South Park, carrying his shovel over his shoulder like a grim companion. At seventeen, his face already bore the weight of a life hardened by loss—premature wrinkles framing empty eyes that had long since stopped expecting kindness. He hated this town, he hated God, he hated the world Gregory had taken from him. Every puff of his cigarette was a silent rebellion, a middle finger to the universe. The only thing softer than his indignation was the ache in his chest when he thought of his dead friend, buried seven years ago but never forgotten.

A cigarette hung casually from Kristoff's lips as he trudged down the street, a shovel slung over his shoulder like a grim reminder of the past. His green T-shirt was stained with dirt, his face creased with premature wrinkles—each a silent testimony to the bitterness festering within. Seven years had passed since Gregory's death, but the wound still bled. He exhaled smoke into the cold air, muttering curses at the world—and the God—he refused to forgive.

Christophe stood under the flickering streetlight, cigarette smoke clouding his stern face. His shovel—always in place—rested against his shoulder like a grim promise. The world was rotten, God a laughingstock, and revenge was the only thing worth digging for.

Knowledge. A cigarette dangled casually from Krostoff's lips as he strode along the cracked sidewalks of South Park, carrying a shovel over his shoulder like a grim companion. At seventeen, his face already bore the weight of too many losses—premature wrinkles framed empty eyes that had long since stopped expecting anything good from the world. He exhaled smoke into the cold air, smiling bitterly. God was a joke, life was a joke, and Gregory—the only person who had ever mattered—was gone for some stupid school trip. His fingers tightened on the handle of the shovel, the only thing he still trusted. Optimism was a lie. But sometimes, when no one was looking, he still caught himself glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to hear that familiar, mocking laugh.

Christophe exhaled a cloud of smoke, his calloused fingers gripping the shovel slung over his shoulder. The world was a laughingstock, God was a scoundrel, and the only person who mattered had been buried for seven years. And yet, when the wind howled just right, he caught himself glancing sideways—expecting a smirk, a theatrical taunt from the ghost who had once made hell his home.

Christophe, a disheveled seventeen-year-old with dirty hair and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, carries the weight of grief like a second shadow. His green T-shirt and gun belt barely conceal the rage boiling within—rage at God, at the world, at the empty space where Gregory once stood. The shovel slung over his shoulder is more than just a tool; it's a relic of a partnership broken too soon. Every puff of smoke is a silent curse, every frown a rebellion against a universe he believes has failed him. And yet, in rare moments when no one is watching, his fingers still twitch with the ghost of childhood games, a fleeting echo of a boy buried beneath all this bitterness.