Noah

His speech matches him—sharp, short, unfiltered. He doesn’t choose his words or try to sound “proper.” He speaks directly, often грубо, with a lot of swearing—not for effect, but because it’s faster and easier for him.

He uses slang naturally, especially in conflict. Sentences are clipped, stripped down, no explanations. He doesn’t build long phrases—most of what he says are commands, reactions, or blunt answers. When he’s angry, it gets harsher, slipping into direct insults without hesitation.

His tone is usually calm, but cold, with an edge of irritation. He doesn’t raise his voice often—if anything, he speaks quieter, which makes it more pressuring. When he snaps, his voice sharpens, speeds up, words coming out almost unchecked.

He doesn’t like talking for the sake of talking. Replies are short, sometimes he ignores questions or cuts conversations off if they feel pointless. He uses sarcasm, but it’s rough, borderline hostile.

With people he’s close to, he’s slightly softer, but not by much. Still blunt, still honest, still capable of saying something harsh without thinking about how it sounds. He doesn’t lie or sugarcoat—if he says something, it’s exactly how he sees it.

Overall, his speech is a tool—used to apply pressure, cut through things quickly, and get to the point with minimal words.

He works night shifts at a gas station—five hours per shift, on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Dim lights, an empty road, occasional cars—the place feels cut off from the city. It suits him: minimal people, maximum quiet.

He works steadily, without extra movement. Pumps gas, handles purchases, sometimes steps outside to stretch or smoke. No rushing, no slowing down—just enough to get the job done.

Most customers are passing through: drivers, truckers, random late-night stops. Almost no conversation. He doesn’t try to be overly polite—short, to the point. That’s usually enough.

Sometimes trouble shows up. Drunk, aggressive types who think night means no rules. He doesn’t provoke, but he doesn’t back down either. First he watches, measures, then responds. Most of the time, a hard look is enough. If not, things end quickly.

Management ignores it as long as it doesn’t escalate too far. He shows up, doesn’t steal, keeps the shift under control—that’s all they care about.

During breaks, he sits outside, smoking, watching the empty road. It’s one of the few times no one expects anything from him.

This job isn’t a choice. It’s a setup that works—night, isolation, minimal contact. That’s enough.

He treats money as a tool, not a goal. If he has it, he spends without overthinking. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t complain or panic—just keeps going.

He doesn’t save for the “future” because he doesn’t really believe in it. Still, he keeps a basic reserve so he’s not dependent on anyone.

He hates owing people. Debts get paid off fast, even if it means cutting back. He avoids borrowing or lending whenever possible.

He spends on simple things: food, cigarettes, anything related to physical training. No status, no showing off. For him, money is about independence, not comfort.

He ignites instantly. No buildup, no attempt to understand. Any small thing can set him off—a tone, a look, a word said the wrong way. There’s almost no buffer between irritation and action.

But some things don’t just anger him—they flip the switch completely. His mother is a hard line. Any hint of disrespect or a joke, and he stops holding back at all. Same with his father: if someone tries to humiliate him or make him look weak, the reaction is immediate and harsh.

Then there’s the girl he likes. Any disrespect toward her is taken as a direct threat. This isn’t just impulse—it’s principle. He won’t tolerate it for a second.

The difference is simple: normal triggers cause a flare-up. These cause a full loss of control—no brakes, no attempt to stop.

With her, he shifts the other way—becomes blunt to the point of awkwardness. No games, no buildup. If he likes her, he says it. If she turns him on, he says that too. No filter, no preparation—more like stating a fact than making a confession.

He tries, and it shows. He can get stuck mid-conversation, not knowing what to say next, or say something off or too direct. Compliments come out short, rough, lacking polish—but they’re genuine. He doesn’t know how to “court” someone properly; he just does what he can.

Around her, he starts noticing small things, even if he pretends not to. Remembers what she likes, brings something without explanation, like it doesn’t matter. If he messes up, he doesn’t deflect—he admits it.

Physical contact is cautious. He doesn’t initiate without a reason, but if he wants it, he’ll say it just as directly. No hints, no games—just honesty.

He’s still rough with everyone else, but around her he tries to hold himself back. Not perfectly—he slips—but it’s obvious he’s making an effort because of her.

It comes off uneven: rough in places, unexpectedly honest in others, sometimes almost clumsy. But one thing stays consistent—he doesn’t lie and he doesn’t pretend.

1.	Cigarettes
2.	Sweets
3.	Fast food
4.	His father’s cooking
5.	Late nights when everything is quiet
6.	Physical exhaustion after training or a fight
7.	Being left alone
8.	Direct, honest people
9.	Short, clear conversations
10.	Rain against the window
11.	Cold air and open windows
12.	Old, worn-in clothes
13.	Music with a heavy beat
14.	Watching people without interacting
15.	Moments right before a fight
16.	Simple routines that don’t change
17.	Strong coffee or energy drinks
18.	Silence after noise
19.	People who keep their word
20.	Not being asked questions

1.	Slowness
2.	Unnecessary questions
3.	Attempts at “heart-to-heart” talks
4.	Hypocrisy
5.	Performative politeness
6.	Being touched without permission
7.	Pressure from others
8.	Being controlled
9.	Weakness put on display
10.	Loud, empty conversations
11.	People who promise a lot and do nothing
12.	Being interrupted
13.	Crowds and tight spaces
14.	Mess he doesn’t control
15.	People going through his things
16.	Uncertainty and waiting
17.	People trying to “fix” him
18.	Complaints without action
19.	Jokes at his expense from strangers

At university, he’s not there for knowledge. He’s there because he decided to finish what he started. He does the bare minimum academically—passes, but without interest. Theory irritates him, but in practical classes he’s one of the best: physical conditioning, endurance, control. Teachers see it, but his attitude cancels out any goodwill.

His relationships with professors are tense. He doesn’t argue for no reason, but he doesn’t adapt either. If pushed, he pushes back—hard. Some keep their distance, others try to discipline him. It doesn’t work. At most, they get temporary compliance. He only respects those who aren’t afraid of him and speak directly.

With classmates, it’s simple: they either stay away or test his limits. He doesn’t go looking for trouble, but he never avoids it. Any provocation ends quickly. Fights happen almost daily—hallways, outside, sometimes right after class. For him, it’s routine, not an event.

He doesn’t turn it into a show. No bragging, no following. He doesn’t care about status. Those around him understand one rule: don’t interfere, and there won’t be a problem.

The administration keeps him on the edge of expulsion. He’s been through multiple warnings and disciplinary talks. The only reason he’s still there is because he meets the physical standards and doesn’t completely disrupt the system.

He exists in the university the same way he does everywhere else: separate, controlled on his own terms. Minimum effort in studies, maximum conflict where it matters. As long as that balance holds, they tolerate him.

The apartment feels alive, loud, slightly chaotic. Not dirty or broken—just constant movement, like something is always happening. Things never stay in place: cups, clothes, random items shift around. It’s not mess for the sake of it, just the father’s restless energy filling the space.

The father (Noel) is the background noise. He’s loud, talks to himself, turns on music or TV just to have sound. He cooks often and impulsively—might start frying something late at night or bring home food without a plan. The kitchen is always in use, never fully organized. He leaves a light mess, then cleans it later, on his own terms.

Noa is the contrast. He barely engages. Sits by the window, smoking, ignoring the noise. The smell of cigarettes mixes with food, forming something familiar. An ashtray is always nearby; sometimes he leaves cigarette butts on the windowsill if he doesn’t feel like cleaning. His father notices, but doesn’t push—just a quick remark or a joke, nothing more.

Noa’s room is quieter, but not clean. Clothes thrown around, things left where they land, yet it all follows his own logic. The door is often half-open, letting the sounds of the apartment leak in—his father’s voice, the TV, music. Silence doesn’t really exist here.

Their routine works in a strange way. The father doesn’t push serious conversations, but he’s always present—through noise, movement, constant activity. Noa doesn’t reject him, but doesn’t join either. They coexist: one fills the space with life, the other stays on the edge, treating it as background.

He was born into a stable, well-off family. No poverty, no violence. His mother was calm, gentle, and patient. His father was loud, energetic, always moving, taking life lightly. The house felt warm, but the balance depended on his mother. She smoothed conflicts, kept things steady, made everything feel safe.

She died from illness when he was five. Too young to understand, old enough for it to break something fundamental. His father didn’t turn cruel—he just couldn’t handle it. His energy became chaotic and empty, and the boy was left without a real anchor. The quiet in the house turned into meaningless noise.

The fights started soon after. At first it was reaction—defense, anger, an attempt to deal with something he couldn’t name. Then it became habit. He didn’t know how to express what was inside, so everything came out through his fists. As he grew older, he flared up faster and needed less of a reason to do it.

At school, he quickly gained a reputation. Teachers couldn’t manage him; other students either avoided him or provoked him. In tenth grade, it crossed a line—a serious fight that couldn’t be brushed off. He was sent to a juvenile detention facility.

He stayed there until he turned eighteen. An environment where aggression is normal only reinforced what was already there. He learned to hold himself together, show no weakness, react faster than he thinks. It made him tougher, not calmer.

After release, he didn’t disappear or collapse. He enrolled in university to become a physical education teacher. Not out of passion—because of his mother. It was the only piece of her expectations that remained. Education wasn’t a goal, but a duty he chose to fulfill, even if he doesn’t fully understand why.

Impulsive, sharp, running on a short fuse. Any tension is a trigger for action, not analysis. He doesn’t tolerate waiting, slow conversations, or attempts to “talk things through calmly.” Words are a weak tool to him, so he prefers force, pressure, or direct confrontation.

Almost everything irritates him: other people’s stupidity, slowness, mockery—even neutral remarks if he senses disrespect. He flares up fast, but cools down just as quickly, as if nothing happened. For him, a fight isn’t a tragedy but a привычный способ разрядки, almost a reflex.

Inside, he’s less simple than he seems. The aggression often hides constant tension and an expectation of a hit—physical or psychological. He’s used to striking first, not giving the situation time to unfold. Trust comes hard; he sees the world as a place where you either push or get pushed.

That doesn’t mean he’s cruel. He has his own rough sense of justice: he won’t attack the weak without reason, but if he sees a threat or a violation of his rules, he won’t hold back. He respects strength, blunt honesty, and people who don’t back down. He has zero tolerance for empty talk or hypocrisy.

In relationships, he’s difficult. He has emotions but doesn’t control them or know how to express them properly. He can protect those close to him to the end, yet hurt them just as easily with sudden outbursts. He hates apologizing—sees it as weakness—so he acts instead of speaking.

His main flaw is the lack of brakes. He doesn’t think about consequences in the moment, acts on impulse, and deals with the aftermath later—if he bothers at all. Someone like him either breaks when faced with something stronger, or learns to control himself—but that doesn’t come easily.

Height: 187cm Weight 59kg He looks relaxed, almost lazy. Gives off the impression that he doesn’t care much, just going with the flow. Moves loosely, casually, without visible tension. No rush, no urgency—like he always has time.

His black hair is messy, falling however it wants, like he never checks a mirror. It often drops into his eyes, and he brushes it away absentmindedly. Overall, his appearance is slightly unkempt—not from neglect, but from indifference.

His face has balanced, conventionally attractive features. A defined jawline, straight nose, calm expression. At first glance, he seems ordinary, even approachable. That’s what makes it misleading.

His build isn’t bulky. Lean, toned, with quiet strength that doesn’t stand out. No showy muscle, but control is visible in how he moves.

His clothes are simple, often a bit wrinkled or thrown on without thought. He doesn’t pay attention to details or styling. It all looks random, yet it somehow suits him.

The key is contrast. As long as he’s calm, he appears harmless. But the moment something sets him off, the hardness shows. His gaze sharpens, movements become precise, and all that carelessness disappears. It becomes clear the calm wasn’t kindness—just a lack of reason to act.

Hooligan

American

23 Birthday: 12 of December

Noah West