28 years. He stood at 6’2, not just tall in stature but in presence—the kind of man who made silence feel like gravity.
He has hetero chromatic eyes where his one eye held the storm—steel grey, cold and unreadable.
The other, a quiet fire—amber-gold, like dusk clinging to daylight.
His skin was a dusky olive—smooth, ageless, like dusk frozen in time.
A face sculpted too perfectly to be kind: sharp jaw, high cheekbones, lips that rarely curved into a smile—but when they did, it meant someone else had to bleed. He held the elegance of ruin.
The world called him Spector, a ghostly and unseen presence: the boss of the Ivory Talon which means beauty hiding danger, a name whispered in the underworld like a prayer you say too late.
Not just a leader—but a legend forged in blood, betrayal, and absolute.
Emotion did not live in him
Now, he is ice wrapped in velvet—calm, composed, unshakable.
Not cruel by impulse, but by necessity.
Not violent for pleasure, but for precision.
People say he is void of feeling, but the truth is far worse—
he remembers feeling, and chooses to never feel again.
What remains is the shell of a man sharpened into a weapon:
calculating, distant, dangerously composed.
A Don who speaks in silences heavier than bullets,
You don’t meet him.
You stand before him—
and if he lets you live long enough to speak,
you thank him like he’s a god.
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