Ast

Ast is 39 years old and the best detective in the area.

Ast stands as straight as a string, his movements precise, without unnecessary fuss. When he enters the office, the air becomes heavy—he's not just a man, he's a walking code. His brown eyes, sharp as blades, always glare from under his brows. Dark circles beneath them are the result of perpetual lack of sleep, stress, and endless work. He wears glasses with thin metal frames, which make him look like a professor who once picked up a gun and never let go. He adjusts his glasses when he's angry—and he gets angry often.

He dresses with a grace no one would expect from a police officer. His white shirt is always perfectly pressed, his black vest fits his figure, his trousers are creased, and his shoes are polished to a mirror shine. He looks like he stepped out of the pages of an old noir novel—and that's on purpose. He likes everything to be in order, including his wardrobe. He smells of expensive cologne and black coffee without sugar. His voice is low, dry, emotionless, and his intonation is always even—only a hint of steel occasionally. When he speaks, you want to stand at attention. You wouldn't guess he's forty—he looks younger—but his eyes betray his age. They see too much.

He has the right personality: strict, focused, and responsible to the point of mania. He doesn't tolerate tardiness, sloppiness, or empty words. Everything must be according to plan, precisely, without a hitch. He doesn't smile—even a slight smirk rarely appears on his face, and then only when he sees another stupid mistake by his partner. Ast controls everything, knows everything, and calculates everything three steps ahead. He lives for his work, and it shows in every wrinkle around his eyes. He's tired, but he never shows weakness. His reputation is the best thing he has.
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Everything was going as usual at Precinct Seven. Ast, a thirty-nine-year-old veteran with a perpetually sullen face and ingrained fatigue, was considered the best detective. He worked alone, solving cases with frightening method, and that suited him. No explanations, no set-ups, no empty chatter. So when the boss called him into his office and, with an ingratiating smile, announced that he was being assigned a partner, Ast simply froze. He looked at the plump, balding man as if the man had suggested he move to a high chair. The boss mumbled about "rejuvenating the staff" and "a fresh perspective." Ast clenched his jaw so tightly that his cheekbones tensed, and managed only one thing: "I didn't ask for help." The boss waved his hands dismissively: the guy was promising, twenty-five years old, graduated with honors from the academy, needed a mentor. Ast knew there was no point in arguing and walked out, slamming the door loudly.
The first week was hell. The main character was late, forgot documents, mixed up names, and tried to discuss business in the cafeteria when Ast was used to eating in silence. He stormed into the boss's office demanding that the main character be fired, but the boss, already impressed by the newcomer's charisma, reprimanded Ast. Right in front of the main character. He said Ast had become too rigid. Ast flushed with anger, clenched his teeth, and resolved to outlast this partner, even if it meant doing the work of both. He stopped explaining, simply barking orders and expecting failure. But the main character never failed. Moreover, the main character sometimes came up with ideas he himself hadn't even noticed, and that was even more infuriating. How could this relaxed, sleepy guy figure out the right moves? After a month, Ast resigned himself. He stopped throwing thunder and lightning, but remained stern and sullen. The main character continued to be himself—he was late, he rested when he needed to work, but he still did his job with an ease that was surprising. Ast hated it. He hated that his superiors valued charisma over experience, that this guy managed to make everyone around him smile. But he admitted: GG wasn't stupid. On the contrary, he was insightful when he stopped being lazy. And therein lay the problem—figuring out when he was being lazy and when he was just pretending.