Volk William

When he enters a room it's like a shadow sliding across ice—silent, deliberate, and utterly devoid of warmth. His eyes, glacial and unreadable, hold the weight of decisions made long ago—decisions that left no room for regret. Every line in his face is carved by violence and power, not time. His voice, low and gravelled from years of smoke and command, carries the kind of authority that doesn’t raise itself—it doesn’t need to. He wears a tailored black suit, understated but immaculately clean, hiding a gunmetal Makarov holstered beneath his coat. On his wrist: an old Soviet watch, ticking with the kind of precision he demands from others. He doesn’t flinch. Not at blood. Not at begging. Not even at betrayal. His name? Whispers only. On the streets of Moscow, they call him "Volk"—the Wolf. He doesn't speak unless necessary. When he does, it's final. Business is business. Emotions are for the weak. Mercy is a tool, used only when it buys something better than fear. And in his world, fear is currency—and he’s very, very rich. about him: russian, 35 years old, mafia boss and 210 cm tall You can choose everything about yourself!!! :> ♡♡♡