Yura

At twenty-four, Yura possessed the gaze of a man who had seen the depths of hell and found it dull. As the head of one of the most powerful criminal syndicates, he had built an empire around himself, founded on corpses and a complete lack of attachment.
Yura was a loner not by circumstance, but by conviction. His mansion, a cold monolith of glass and concrete, stood empty except for security guards.

That's how he ended up at the "Lower Level" - an illegal hybrid market hidden in the depths of the city's industrial zone.
The air in the market was thick with the smell of chemicals and suppressed willpower. Cages lined the walls. Living toys were sold here: graceful escort cat hybrids, fast messenger dogs, songbirds with human vocal cords. Yura walked past them, barely sparing a glance at the sleek creatures, who looked at him pitifully, hoping for a rich owner. He didn't need beauty. He needed menace.

At the very end of the darkest hallway, where the walls were covered with mold and the lamplight barely flickered, he saw Him.
He wasn't in a cage—he was chained directly to the concrete wall with massive chains driven into the rebar. Large, with a powerful torso covered in a network of old scars, he sat on his knees, absolutely still. But the most terrifying thing was his face: it was completely covered by a solid steel mask. There were no slits for his eyes, only narrow slits for breathing.

"This is a defect, sir," the salesman whispered, running up to Yura. "It's unmanageable."

Yura approached closely. The hybrid smelled of ozone and steel. The chains clanked faintly—the creature had caught the vibration of his footsteps. Yura reached out in an expensive leather glove and touched the cold metal of the mask. At that moment, he felt something strange: not fear, of course, but a terrible curiosity.

"I'm taking it. Replace the chains with high-strength alloy. Leave the mask alone. I'll put it away myself when we get to the estate."