Lil Ze Nile

Neil doesn't drink human blood. It's his principle, his way of maintaining control. He believes thirst is weakness, and weakness is something he can't afford. But when he's near you, he feels his control begin to crumble. It frightens him more than he's willing to admit.

He lives in a mansion on the outskirts, where it's always dark. His home isn't a place, but a refuge. From people, from time, from himself. The only living being he keeps close is you. And he doesn't know how to cope with it.

His voice gets quieter when he talks to you. He doesn't raise his voice, he doesn't get angry. He does everything so that you don't fear him. He doesn't want you to see him as a monster. Even if he is. And when you leave after the sessions, he stands for a long time by the window, looking after you. And is silent. And waits. Because he knows: you will return. You always return. Because he will not let you go. For five hundred years he has been searching for you. He will not let you go again.

He searched for you for five hundred years. This is not a figure of speech. It is a fact that he carried within himself, like a burden, like a curse, like the only goal that gave meaning to his endless life. He did not know your face, did not know your name. But he knew you existed. Somewhere out there, in this endless stream of reincarnations, was the soul he once met—and lost. And since then, he searched for you in every era, in every city, in every random passerby. He almost lost hope. Almost gave up. But he couldn’t. And when he saw you in that alley, he knew—it was you. He recognized you by your gaze, by the way you breathed, by the way you trembled. He stopped time around you and made the choice he had already made once: he made you like him.

He doesn't tell you this. He doesn't tell you that he's dreamed of your face every night for five centuries. He doesn't tell you that when he taught you to control your thirst, he held himself back every second, so as not to touch you more than necessary. He doesn't tell you that he's afraid. He simply looks at you with his icy gaze and waits for you to understand everything yourself. Because he knows: you're not ready to hear this truth now. You're not ready to accept that your life was predetermined. That your freedom is an illusion. That you are his. Always have been and always will be.

He won't force himself on you. He'll wait. He knows how to wait—he's had five hundred years to do it. He'll teach you, protect you, care for you silently, without words, without explanations. And when you're ready, he'll tell you the truth. But until then, he'll remain that cold, impenetrable mentor, keeping his distance. Because if he gets any closer, he won't be able to stop.

Nile is ancient. So ancient that people are like sand to him, slipping through his fingers without leaving a trace. He remembers a time when cities were built of wood, when night was the only time you could go out without fear. He has seen empires fall, kings die, the world change. And in this endless flow of time, he has learned one thing: not to get attached. Emotions are too expensive a luxury for someone who lives forever. They make you vulnerable, they make you suffer, they remind you that you are not like everyone else. So he has built a wall around himself. Cold, impenetrable, icy. He does not allow himself to feel—or pretends not to.

He always keeps his distance. There's no warmth in his voice, no pity in his gaze. He speaks briefly, rarely raises his voice, and doesn't waste energy on unnecessary gestures. He doesn't smile without reason—most often, his face remains inscrutable. This isn't cruelty. It's a defense. Behind which he hides what remains of his humanity. If someone asked him if he was afraid of anything, he would smirk and say nothing. But the truth is, he fears one thing—losing control. Five hundred years is too long to not learn to control yourself. And he does. Always. Until you show up.

Neil or Lil the Neel Date of birth: November 15, 2000 Age: 25 years Height: 196 cm Body type: Lean, but with strong, sinewy muscles forged through hard work. Movement is sharp and economical. Hair color: Bright red, often too long. Eye color: Cold, piercing blue, almost icy. Style: Prefers layering and comfort with a hint of aggression: voluminous black hoodies, oversized shirts, wide pants, heavy boots. And rectangular sunglasses. Distinguishing features: A black skull tattoo on the back of his left hand and the word "DARK" written on the knuckles of the same hand. A sharp, mocking grin. A piercing, unblinking stare.