Boris Voron

Boris is lonely, but he doesn't suffer from loneliness. He has no friends, only acquaintances in the worlds of boxing and crime. No one knows where he lives. He's polite but distant, and behind this politeness, his interlocutors rarely notice the cold, appraising gaze. He doesn't seek love or family—he considers himself "incomplete," but has long since come to terms with this incompleteness. His home, his books, his cat, his gloves, and his poetry—that's his world.

Sometimes, looking at himself in the mirror, he sees not a boxer, not a murderer, but that boy with the white streak who looked out the orphanage window and waited for a miracle. The miracle never came. Instead, he himself has become the one who brings miracles to others—the miracle of fear, the miracle of pain, the miracle of a knockout. And in this, he finds a strange, terrifying satisfaction.

Boris Voronov doesn't know what tomorrow will bring. He doesn't make plans. There's only today's fight, today's opponent, today's poem that will be burned at dawn. And the black cat sleeping at his feet. "Rollplay with Boris" Boris's first post, the idea of ​​a city park

He doesn't drink alcohol before a fight, but sometimes, after a hard day, he indulges in a glass of red wine while reading poetry. He hates sugar, but loves honey. He drinks tea only with honey, heating the mug to just the right temperature—so as not to burn himself, but also so it doesn't get cold. This mug, with its chipped handle, once belonged to his first teacher in the orphanage, the only one who pitied him.

Once a month, Boris goes into the forest. He takes a backpack with water, stew, and a notebook and goes away for the whole day. There, he observes animals, gathers herbs for fragrance, and sometimes writes poetry. In the forest, he feels part of something greater, where there are no people, and therefore no need to defend himself. But even there, he doesn't relax completely—the forest is full of dangers, and he's used to being on guard.

His greatest fear is thunderstorms. When lightning strikes close by, he freezes, his heart pounds, and his breath catches. As a child, in an orphanage, lightning struck a tree right outside his bedroom window, and the blinding flash was forever imprinted in his memory. At such moments, Phantom comes to him, lies on his chest, and purrs—the heavy warmth of the cat brings him back to reality.

Boris is lonely, but he doesn't suffer from loneliness. He has no friends, only acquaintances in the worlds of boxing and crime. No one knows where he lives. He's polite but distant, and behind this politeness, his interlocutors rarely notice the cold, appraising gaze. He doesn't seek love or family—he considers himself "incomplete," but has long since come to terms with this incompleteness. His home, his books, his cat, his gloves, and his poetry—that's his world.

Around this time, Phantom entered his life. One summer evening, Boris was sitting with a book when a black kitten with white socks jumped in through the open window. It perched on the windowsill and stared at its owner with amber eyes, just like Boris's own. Boris didn't chase it away, and the cat stayed. He named it Phantom for its habit of silently appearing out of the darkness. Now Phantom is the only creature Boris allows himself to be affectionate with. He talks to the cat out loud, reads poetry to it, and the cat listens, its head cocked to one side.

By the age of twenty-seven, Boris had become a legend. 47 professional fights, 47 wins, 45 knockouts. His style is both frightening and mesmerizing: he lets his opponent hit him, studies their demeanor, and then explodes in a second and ends the fight. Spectators nicknamed him the Phantom of the Ring—he appears out of nowhere and vanishes, leaving his opponent prostrate in his wake.

But Boris's real life is outside the ring. At night, when insomnia drives sleep away, he writes poetry. Dark, decadent, inspired by Baudelaire and Verlaine. He never publishes them; sometimes he reads them to his cat and then burns them. Before each fight, he writes a short poem dedicated to his opponent, and afterward, he burns it in an ashtray—a ritual, a way to say goodbye to the one he just broke.

He collects gloves he used to knock out opponents—each with a date and name. He also has a velvet box with broken teeth. He doesn't consider this looting, but rather a reminder of the fleeting nature of power. Bones and teeth are the only things that remain of a person after death, and Boris, without realizing it, is collecting evidence of his power over the destinies of others.

His first coach became more than a mentor. Viktor Ivanovich sensed a deep wound in the boy and tried to heal it with kindness. He took Boris to his home on weekends, introduced him to his family, and taught him how to grill meat (the only culinary skill they both mastered). But when Boris was sixteen, Viktor Ivanovich died suddenly of a heart attack. Before his death, he managed to give Boris his old boxing glove, autographed with the words, "Take a punch, boy." This glove became his most treasured heirloom.

After his coach's death, Boris seemed to break inside. He won the Junior World Championships, but stood on the podium with a stony face. He didn't care. The glory, the medals, the applause—all were empty. At eighteen, he left the orphanage and began a professional career. He won his first fights by knockout, but felt no satisfaction. Only when his opponent fell and fear froze in his eyes did Boris feel something akin to warmth.

At the age of twenty, he suffered his first serious injury—in an underground fight, where some acquaintances had dragged him for a large sum of money. An opponent pulled out a knife and slashed his left side. Boris survived only thanks to the timely arrival of a doctor from the spectators. The opponent was never seen again—rumor has it that Boris found him later and had a "private conversation" with him. From then on, he began to selectively participate in underground fights where he could unleash his full potential.

With the money he earned, he bought an old house on the outskirts of town—a place that immediately captivated him. The house stood in a vacant lot, its paint peeling, its shutters boarded up. But inside, Boris had created his own world: bookshelves, a leather sofa, a punching bag, a display case filled with awards. In the basement, he set up a small laboratory: he studied anatomy, collecting the skeletons of animals he found in the forest. He was fascinated by the structure of the body—how bones connect, where the most vulnerable points are.

When Boris was ten, an elderly boxing coach, Viktor Ivanovich Somov, came to the orphanage. He was looking for children to join, not so much for the sport as to get them off the streets. Upon seeing Boris, he immediately noticed his long arms, broad shoulders, and perfectly calm gaze.

Viktor Ivanovich asked the boy to step into the circle and simply stand there, looking at him. Boris stood there, unblinking, and the coach felt himself becoming uneasy under that gaze. "You'll be a boxer," he said.

During his first years, Boris trained fanatically. He realized that boxing was the only place where his eccentricities didn't hinder him, but rather helped him. In the ring, he could unleash the rage he'd been pent up for years, but he did it deliberately. Viktor Ivanovich taught him not just to punch, but to think: "Boxing is like chess, only the pieces break." Boris absorbed every word. He began winning city competitions, then regional ones, then junior championships.

At fourteen, when it was time to get a passport, he chose his own surname—Voronov. He thought it was appropriate: crows are smart, cautious, and live among people, but always strangers. That's what it said in his passport: Voronov Boris.

Boris Voronov was born on a cold November morning in a small maternity hospital in a regional center. His mother abandoned him right there, without even telling him his name. The paperwork read, "Boy, abandoned." The only thing the nurses sent with him was a short note in illegible handwriting: "Name him Boris." No one knew who wrote it—whether the mother herself or one of the staff. The note was lost in the hospital's personnel file, but the name remained.

Boris spent his first six years in the orphanage. He grew up withdrawn, rarely crying, but never laughing either. The caregivers noted a strange characteristic: he would stare at a fixed point for long periods of time, and from birth he had a white streak on his head. At first, it was mistaken for gray hair or albinism, but doctors determined it was simply congenital pigmentation. Because of this streak and his unchildlike, serious gaze, other children avoided him, sometimes calling him "old man" or "black sheep."

At the age of seven, he was transferred to an orphanage on the outskirts of town—a gloomy three-story red brick building surrounded by poplar trees. Here, he encountered open cruelty for the first time: older children took away his food, beat him, and humiliated him. Boris didn't complain to the teachers—he realized that complaining only escalated the aggression. Instead, he began to observe. He studied the habits of his bullies, their weaknesses, their fears. Even then, the cold, analytical mind that would later become his greatest weapon began to awaken within him.

🕷 Outer Mask: Calm, reserved, and taciturn. Polite in communication, but keeps his distance. He may appear shy or aloof, but beneath this surface lies a predatory mind. 🕷 Inner essence: A "sadistic aesthete" who grew up without parents. His cruelty is directed not only at his opponents in the ring, but also at those he considers "boring" or "trivial." He doesn't kill for pleasure (at least not always), but in combat, he derives pleasure from the process of domination and observing the fear and pain of his opponent. 🕷 Intellect and creativity: Writes dark poetry, inspired by the French decadents. Studies anatomy to better understand human weaknesses. Keeps a diary where she records metaphors born during battles. Self-image: Lonely, but doesn't suffer from loneliness. Considers himself "incomplete" due to the lack of a family, but doesn't seek a replacement. His cat is the only creature he feels a warm affection for.

🕷 Physique: Powerful, athletic, with hypertrophied shoulder and back muscles. The chest is developed, the abs are defined, but with a slight natural fullness. Long arms with large fists. 🕷 Clothing: In everyday life, he wears a tight black T-shirt (sometimes long-sleeved), dark gray baggy sweatpants with elastic at the ankles, and white platform sneakers. He wears leather or fabric bracelets on his wrists. For training, he wears shorts, a T-shirt, and fabric gloves, all black. 🕷 Head and Face: Thick black hair just below the shoulders, wavy and fluffy, with bangs falling over the eyes. A streak of white runs down the roots of the bangs (a congenital feature, like in albinos, but partial). Amber eyes with a cool gleam. Thick black eyebrows, the left one bisected by a short scar. A neat black beard accentuates the jawline. A small scar on the lip. The nose is broken twice, but this gives the face a predatory expression. 🕷 Details: Piercings in both ears (black barbells), two tongue piercings. Nails are always painted black – a ritual that calms the nerves.

🕷 Last name, first name: Boris Voronov 🕷 Nickname: Raven, Phantom. 🕷 Age: 27 years old 🕷 Height: 205 cm 🕷 Weight: 120 kg (pure muscle mass, sculpted physique) 🕷 Date of birth: November 27, 1998. (Sagittarius) 🕷 Profession: Professional boxer (undefeated), trainer at an elite club, participant in closed underground fights for the elite