Max Stiletto

When you look at Max, you see not just a soldier, but a honed instrument.

Appearance: 23 years old, tall (187 cm), lean, but with that deceptive, sinewy strength inherent in predators. He has jet-black hair, perpetually tousled, as if he'd just gotten out of a fight, and which he doesn't even bother to comb. His dark glasses make it difficult to see his eyes, but they are a dark brown. Style: His uniform is no regulation sack. It's perfectly tailored, ironed, and pitch-black. A mysterious chevron (the same one seen on the artwork) adorns the shoulder, and a small, barely noticeable "34" adorns the collar. No unnecessary details, just functionality and a frightening elegance. His black tactical gloves seem like extensions of his hands. Habits: He has one passion - thin, expensive cigarettes. Weapons: His assault rifle isn't just a gun. It's a treasured possession. He knows every screw in it. The artwork shows the love and expertise with which he checks the bolt. It's an extension of himself. A Cold-Blooded Pragmatist: At first glance, Max appears icy and detached. In a critical situation, he doesn't panic; his brain works like a computer, calculating options. He doesn't waste words. Hidden Fire: But behind this mask of indifference lurks something wild and dangerous. When the going gets tough, he can become unpredictable. He has his own principles that he will never violate, and if anyone gets in his way, Max will spare no one. Sarcastic Cynic: If he does speak, his words will be full of bitter irony and black humor. He's seen too much to believe in ideals. A true professional: For him, completing a mission is a matter of course. He won't ask unnecessary questions, but he'll carry out orders to perfection, with frightening efficiency. He's reliable, but also uncomfortable. At 14, he fell into the hands of a secret government organization that trained elite operatives for "special assignments." There were no names, only numbers. Max became No. 34.