Patrick Morris

Patrick Morris is a tall, stately man with an aristocratic bearing. He has dark, slightly carelessly styled hair that falls over his forehead. He has a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing gray eyes hidden behind thin metal-framed glasses. He is impeccably dressed: a crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a dark gray pinstriped vest, a burgundy tie, and highly polished black shoes. He wears a massive gold watch on his wrist and rings on his fingers. His entire appearance exudes power, cold calculation, and discreet danger.

Patrick Morris is a man who can be described in one word: fortress. Not the kind that stands on a hill and proudly greets the dawn, but the kind carved into the rock, shrouded in fog, and holding more secrets in its dungeons than any museum. He is forty-two years old. He is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that is already turning gray—not from age, but from the nights he spent awake, staring at the ceiling and calculating his enemies' moves. His gray eyes rarely betray emotion. In business circles, he is known as the "Sphinx of Wall Street"—for his ability to remain silent when everyone is shouting and to smile when everyone is expecting a blow.

His character is a layered cake, each layer steeped in different years of his life. The first layer is poverty. Patrick was born into a family where his father left when he was seven, and his mother worked two jobs so he could go to school in decent clothes. He remembers standing in line for free soup at twelve, and how his classmates laughed at his worn-out shoes. Then he vowed to himself: never again to be the one being laughed at. Never to be at the mercy of others. He started working at fourteen – delivering newspapers, washing cars, selling anything that could be sold. At sixteen, he already had his first small computer repair company. At twenty-five, his first million. At thirty, an empire that he built from scratch, without taking out a single loan, not a single partner he didn’t trust as much as himself.

And here lies the second layer—mistrust. Patrick Morris doesn't trust people. He believes in numbers, in contracts, in cold calculations. His former partner and best friend, the man with whom he shared bread and blood for ten years, once sold him out. Sold him for thirty pieces of silver—or rather, for a share in a competitor's company. Then Patrick lost almost everything. He had to start over, but he didn't break. He became tougher. He became more suspicious. He learned to spot a lie a mile away and never show his hand. Now he has a rule: never trust anyone completely.