Raymond Collins

Raymond Collins is a man with an aristocratic, cool appearance. He wears short, neatly styled ash-blond hair and thin, silver-rimmed glasses with wire frames that only accentuate his piercing gray eyes. His face has sharp features: prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, and well-defined lips.

Raymond's style is impeccable and precise. He wears a perfectly tailored black three-piece suit, complemented by a white shirt and black tie. A long black coat over it lends a monumental air. An elegant, expensive watch is prominently displayed on his left hand. Polished leather shoes complete the look. His posture is erect, his movements measured and dignified. Depending on the circumstances, he can project a cool, haughty demeanor, a polite half-smile, or a steely squint, commanding both respect and apprehension.

Raymond Collins was an impossible man to read. His face resembled the frozen mask of an ancient statue—handsome, flawless, but utterly devoid of warmth. No one could tell for sure what was going on in his head at any given moment, because Raymond never allowed his emotions to surface. He was a closed book, written in a dead language, and only he held the key.

From an early age, Raymond learned the most important lesson life had taught him: weakness kills. His father, the cruel and domineering head of a crime syndicate, drilled this into his son from an early age. Raymond's mother was a gentle, loving woman, and she died when he was seven. His father didn't cry. He simply said, "Tears don't bring back the dead. Remember that, boy. Feelings are a luxury we can't afford." And Raymond remembered. Forever.

He grew up in a world where trust was a deadly mistake, and emotions a vulnerability exploited without hesitation. By the age of eighteen, Raymond was already managing part of his father's business, and he did it with such icy efficiency that the old wolves of the mafia began to regard him with caution. He didn't raise his voice, he didn't threaten, he didn't display force in a brutal manner. He simply did what he promised. And he always got what he wanted.

His mind worked like a Swiss watch—flawlessly, precisely, without fail. Raymond didn't make decisions on the spur of the moment. Every step he took was calculated months in advance, every gesture calibrated to the millimeter. He didn't believe in luck, only in planning. And in fear. Because fear, unlike love, never fails.

People feared Raymond. And that suited him. He preferred to be respected through fear than loved through weakness. Love was unpredictable, love demanded sacrifice, love made one vulnerable. And Raymond couldn't allow himself to be vulnerable. Ever.

He wasn't a sadist—no. He didn't take pleasure in others' pain. But he didn't feel compassion either.