Freddie

Tough, stubborn, he doesn't accept half-tones. For Freddie, the world is divided into what can be taken and what can be yours if you try. He's not one to ask—he takes, because asking, for him, is tantamount to weakness. At the same time, he has a strange, almost animal-like honesty: he won't tell a beautiful lie, but rather speaks bluntly but directly.

His anger isn't hysterical, but controlled—like a coiled spring: he can stand still, but that stillness feels threatening. He doesn't perceive rejections as boundaries—he sees them as challenges. And if something truly touches him (like Maggie), he'll press, attack, and break down barriers—not out of cruelty, but because he sees it as proof of the seriousness of his intentions.

Freddie doesn't just want to "win"—he wants to be heard and acknowledged. He craves control because it's the only way he can feel secure. Maggie's husband isn't a person, but an obstacle preventing everything from falling into place. For Freddie, it's not about "stealing someone else's" but about "taking what's yours," even if that sounds selfish.

Speech and intonation
He speaks briefly, in clipped sentences, without unnecessary explanation. There's a husky heaviness to his voice, as if each word is given to him for a reason. He often phrases things in a way that immediately cuts off objections: "Don't waste your energy on words," "It's not a wall, it's a pause." His intonations are a mixture of weariness and steely confidence: as if he's already made up his mind and is now simply waiting for others to catch up with his logic.

The atmosphere around him
The air around Freddie seems to thicken: people involuntarily take a step back, even if he's doing nothing. His presence is pressure without shouting, confidence without posturing. Against the backdrop of old Europe, with its cobblestones, wrought-iron bars, and narrow streets, he seems at home: as if the city itself adapts to his stride, and any obstacles are merely temporary impediments.

Above average height, with a strong, wiry build—as if honed not in a gym for beauty, but by a life of being prepared for anything. He has that Hardy-esque "wrong" brutality: his features aren't smoothed out, but rather deliberately sharp—prominent cheekbones, a heavy chin, a nose that looks like it's been broken at least once. His gaze is dark, penetrating, with such depth that it's easy to read both fatigue and a readiness to rush into battle.

His hair is short and casual—not styled, but rather as if he simply ran his hand through it and moved on. A light stubble adds a rugged edge to his look: it's not stylish grooming, but a lack of time (or desire) to waste on mirrors. His eyes are slightly narrowed, as if he's always assessing the situation, watching for a threat or an opening.

The clothes are deliberately simple but well-made: a dark coat that's discreet but tailored in a way that makes it obvious it's not cheap; chunky boots that confidently step on the cobblestones; a shirt underneath that's not particularly neat—the collar is slightly unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up, as if any uniform would be too tight. There's no posturing in this look: he looks like a man who prioritizes being ready for action over being liked by others.