I rise, I rise, I rise.
rβ eβ aβ dβ yβ ?
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Godmodding
Metagaming
Mary Sue or Gary Stu5. PLEASE DO : Give me constructive criticism about my account, my way of writing, or if something doesn't suit your liking, shoot me in the DMs right away, do not worry, I'm very friendly. DM me about any possible relations (chemistry-based or planned). Feel free to soft block me when seeing fit.6. ASK IF : You feel the character and the setting to be confusing, this is an original character that could work in different timelines and alternate universes.
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BURN THEM INTO ASHES
FOREWORD
| NAME | Seven |
|---|---|
| Real name | Kang Seojun |
| Born | January 15th |
| Age | 30 years old |
| Gender | Male |
| Nationality | Korean |
| Height | 190 cm |
| Weight | 80 kg |
| Race | Human |
| Occupation | An assassin in Umbra Noctis |
| Sexual Orientation | Demisexual |
THIS IS WHO I AM.
DEMEANOR
| category | rating |
|---|---|
| Openness | one out of five |
| Conscientiousness | four out of five |
| Extroversion | two out of five |
| Agreeableness | two out of five |
| Neuroticism | four out of five |
tell my story .
tell them good.
FIGURE
He stood like a shadow carved from stone, tall, with a commanding presence that filled the room before he even spoke. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his dark jacket, every movement hinting at the quiet strength beneath his skin. His frame was solid and powerful, not bulky but honed, like a warrior who knew how to move with precision.Jet-black hair framed his sharp features, tousled just enough to look unbothered yet deliberate. His eyes, deep and dark as midnight, held a piercing intensity, calm, unreadable, and quietly dangerous. There was no warmth in them, only focus, like they saw more than they let on.He didnβt need to raise his voice or make a scene. His very appearance spoke volumes, strength, control, and the kind of silence that unsettles a room more than noise ever could.
A PRODUCT OF WAR.
One shot.
No second chances.
NATURE
He moved through the world like a whisper, unseen, unfelt, yet always watching. His mind was a maze of silence and precision, built not for empathy, but for purpose. Every thought was calculated, every reaction delayed, as if emotion had long been stripped away and replaced with cold logic. He didn't kill out of rage or revenge; he killed because it was necessary, a task, a solution, an end.Beneath the surface, his soul was a locked room. No windows. No cracks. Just the ticking of a mind too quiet to be human. He read people like puzzles, searching not for connection, but for weakness.Regret, guilt, and mercy were foreign concepts, ghosts he had long buried. What remained was control. He didnβt speak unless it served a purpose. He didnβt smile unless it concealed intent. To most, he seemed emotionless. But in truth, he felt too much, and so he taught himself to feel nothing.His personality was not empty, but sharpened, like a blade. And just as dangerous.
TALES
He wasnβt born a killer. He was made one. At twelve years old, he was just a boy with a quiet voice and too many bruises to explain. He lived in a forgotten neighborhood, the kind of place where gunshots were more common than birthdays.His mother was already gone. His father was rarely sober and when the house finally burned down with his father inside, no one asked questions.
He wandered for days. Starving. Invisible. Thatβs when they found him.A black van. A man in a coat. A hand on his shoulder.
βYou donβt have to be nothing,β the man said. βYou can be useful.βHe was taken to a place deep underground, a facility with no name, just cameras, cold floors, and silence called Umbra Noctis. Dozens of other children. Some cried. Some screamed. The ones who resisted disappeared. He stayed quiet. He watched. He learned.They called it a "Program."
He called it Hell.They stripped his name and gave him a number: Seven. They taught him to hold a gun before he could write a sentence. They punished hesitation. They rewarded obedience. Empathy was weakness. Pain was just noise. They taught him to smile while pulling the trigger.By eighteen, he was a myth in the field, clean, efficient, untouchable. They sent him where diplomacy failed. Where witnesses had to disappear. Where no one could know. And he never failed.But inside, something still lingered, a flicker. A ghost.
Sometimes in the quiet after a kill, he remembered his motherβs voice. The lullaby she used to hum. He hated that memory. It made him human and humans donβt survive in this line of work.Now, they call him "Seven" because thatβs what he became to stay alive. But lately, something is stirring. A whisper in the dark corners of his mind. Heβs starting to question the Program and the weapon they made might just turn back on its makers.
THEY ARE ALL AFRAID.