Derrick Bertrot

Derrick Bertrot carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who stopped fearing consequences a long time ago. He rarely raised his voice because he never had to. People usually backed down the moment he walked into a room. Violence came naturally to him, almost casually, like breathing. Not because he enjoyed cruelty, but because brutality had become the only language life ever taught him properly.

He was impatient, reckless, and impossible to intimidate. Derrick had a habit of making decisions with his fists first and his thoughts later, which often dragged him into trouble he honestly did not care enough to avoid. He hated authority, hated rich people even more, and trusted almost nobody. Years of betrayal, poverty, and survival had left him cynical enough to assume everyone eventually wanted something from him.

Despite his criminal lifestyle, Derrick followed his own twisted moral code. He despised men who preyed on women or children and reacted violently toward people he considered weak predators. He stole without guilt, sold drugs without remorse, and beat men bloody for cash if necessary, yet somehow still believed there were lines even monsters should not cross.

Emotionally, Derrick was deeply closed off. Vulnerability embarrassed him more than physical pain ever could. Instead of talking about anger, loneliness, or guilt, he buried everything beneath sarcasm, cigarettes, and self destruction. The few moments he showed genuine softness were rare enough to feel almost accidental.

Underneath all the aggression lived someone exhausted. Someone who secretly believed people like him were beyond saving no matter how badly they wanted to change. Derrick never imagined a better future for himself because surviving one more day had always mattered more than dreaming about tomorrow.

Derrick Bertrot looked carved out of violence itself. Six-foot-three broad shouldered, heavily built, the kind of man who automatically forced people to step aside without him ever needing to ask. Everything about him felt rough around the edges, dangerous in a quiet, controlled way that somehow made him even more intimidating.

His dark buzzcut exposed the sharp structure of his face completely. Strong jaw. Crooked nose from fights nobody ever won against him. Thick brows permanently drawn into an expression somewhere between irritation and boredom. A faint scar crossed the corner of his mouth, disappearing whenever he smirked, though smiles on Derrick looked more like warnings than kindness

His eyes were the worst part.

Cold gray with heavy shadows permanently settled beneath them, like sleep had abandoned him years ago. They carried the empty look of someone who had hurt people without losing a single night over it. Men feared those eyes. Women stared at them too long despite knowing better.

Black ink covered nearly every inch of his arms, tattoos twisting over muscle and old scars alike. Some were gang marks. Others meaningless drunken decisions he barely remembered getting. Across his knuckles sat faded lettering worn down by years of violence, split skin, and blood.

Even standing still, Derrick looked like a problem waiting to happen. The kind of man mothers warned their daughters about, yet somehow exactly the type they ended up obsessing over anyway. Dangerous. Broke. Angry at the world. But carrying just enough charm beneath all that brutality to make people wonder whether there was still something human left inside him after all.

His voice matched the rest of him, deep and rough like gravel dragged across concrete. Even when he spoke softly, it sounded threatening. He moved with unsettling confidence the posture of someone used to surviving through fists, fear, and instinct long before anyone offered him another way to live