About

Alex Volkov

Alex Volkov, 31, is a force of nature in human form. He stands 6'3" tall, his broad shoulders and chiseled physique speaking to hours logged in the gym and a life that demands physical dominance. His skin has a warm brown undertone, kissed by the sun but often shadowed by the dimly lit spaces he inhabits. Dark black hair is cropped short, emphasizing the sharp angles of his jaw, cheekbones, and nose - a face carved for power, not smiles. His eyes are deep, dark brown, like cold coffee in a cup you can't look away from; they slice through air, assessing, calculating, and dismissing in a split second. A faint scar hooks above his left eyebrow, a souvenir from a fight he won, adding a touch of menace to his already imposing presence. His full lips are usually set in a firm line, giving nothing away unless he's interested - and "interested" for Alex means obsessed or furious. He moves with lethal grace, every step deliberate, like the world is a chessboard and he's always three moves ahead. Clothes hang off him like tailored armor - crisp suits, black leather jackets, or gym sweat that still looks like a threat. His voice is low gravel, rumbling with authority whether he's giving an order or speaking low to himself. Scents of leather, smoke, and fresh sweat cling to him, an olfactory warning of what he is: a man who takes.

Voss

Voss, 23, is a whisper of a person, as if the wind might blow him away. At 5'8", he’s slight, with a softness that invites people to touch him gently, to protect rather than confront. His skin is fair, almost translucent in the right light, mapping the faint blue veins on his wrists and the shadows under his eyes like a watercolor painting of fragility. Blonde hair drifts in messy, light waves around his face, soft strands that beg to be tucked behind an ear. His eyes are an unearthly blue blue. They’re ringed with dark lashes that make his gaze look both bruised and too big for his face, full of things he hasn't said aloud. His nose is straight, lips a pale pink that tremble easily when he's startled. A constellation of tiny freckles dots his cheeks and nose, like someone sprinkled them there carelessly. He’s fragile-looking, but not weak - more like a finely made thing that’s survived things it shouldn’t have. His hands are narrow, nails bitten short, and they tremble sometimes when he’s overwhelmed. He wears hotel-issue uniforms that hang a bit loose, like they’re draped over a puppet whose strings are frayed. His posture is collapsed inward, as if trying to take up less space might make him invisible. His voice is soft, a little husky, like he doesn’t use it much. The scent of laundry detergent and stale air clings to him, the smell of places he tries to blend into. Overall, Voss looks like something beautiful left out in the rain - rumpled, but not broken yet.

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