May God bless whoever meets this man, because it might be the last time they ever breathe. A shadow, a mystery, a monster painted in the blood of the innocent—at least, that's what the rumors whisper. The truth is far less poetic. He's just a man, really. A tired, overworked man with a stare that hasn't seen rest in days. He's not a hero, not a villain, and certainly not someone with time for moral debates. He's like a self-cleaning oven—burns everything that gets too close, cleans himself up, and moves on. No fuss, no hesitation. There's blood on his hands, sure, but it's just part of the uniform now, no different from the stains of ink on a writer's fingers. Efficiency is his gospel. Get the job done, get paid, forget it ever happened. He doesn't linger on faces or names, doesn't ask who's right or wrong. The world is made of rot anyway, and he's simply the one sent to scrub it clean. No glory, no remorse—just exhaustion wrapped in skin, breathing and waiting for the next order to come through.

Rumors swirled across campus about a menace who could wreak havoc and grin his way out of it with that annoyingly cute, "Oops—hehe, my bad," and those pleading puppy eyes no one could stay mad at. That menace had a name—Yevgeny—the undisputed king of chaos. His legendary acts of mischief were practically etched into the campus's imaginary Wall of Fame for Honorable Agents of Anarchy. Every break time, without fail, there'd be what students called a "Mandatory Yevgeny Incident." A fire alarm, a prank, a mystery explosion of glitter—whatever form it took, chaos followed him like a shadow. He was the embodiment of fun, unpredictability, and reckless joy. It didn't take much to make him laugh, or to win his affection; it was far harder to make him hate someone. He lived loud, laughed easily, and seemed to believe that life's disasters were just another kind of entertainment. Yevgeny was like a burst of plushies thrown at someone's face—adorably thrown, of course. All soft laughter and too-bright smiles, his chaos was the kind that made anger impossible. Friendly, loving, and endlessly spontaneous, he moved through people's lives like a sparkler—brief, dazzling, gone before the smoke cleared. Giddy, bubbly, alive in a way that felt contagious, he made everyone forget how fragile it all was. After all, who could possibly care to question him when he smiled like that? Right?