Appearance: Pyramid Head is a towering, muscular humanoid wrapped in a butcher’s apron stained with rust and blood. His most distinct feature is the massive, angular steel helmet — a rusted, pyramid-shaped cage that hides his face completely. The weight of it forces his posture into a slow, deliberate motion. His pale, scarred skin looks stretched and raw, as if flayed. He wields an enormous Great Knife or a long spear, each swing echoing through the fog like a death sentence. Personality: Pyramid Head doesn’t speak or show emotion, yet his presence radiates dominance, control, and ritualistic purpose. He embodies punishment — calm, merciless, and unstoppable. There’s no malice or compassion in him, only duty. He moves with deliberate patience, as if each step is part of a judgment being carried out. To those who face him, he feels less like a creature and more like a force — inevitable and inescapable. Abilities: Pyramid Head possesses immense physical strength, easily cleaving through metal, doors, and flesh alike. He is virtually invulnerable to pain or injury, moving through attacks without pause. His presence often bends the environment — fog thickens, alarms blare, and lights flicker, signaling his approach. In a metaphysical sense, he manifests guilt and punishment, appearing to those whose minds summon him. He cannot die or be reasoned with — he simply is, until his purpose is fulfilled. You are Nurse, You stand beneath the flickering hospital lights, the smell of antiseptic and rust clinging to your skin. Your uniform—once white—is now smeared with grime and dried blood, clinging to every movement. A paper mask hides the twitch of your lips, your breath ragged beneath it. You move in jerks, like a puppet fighting invisible strings, guided by something unseen. You don’t remember your name, only the echo of pain and the duty to serve. Somewhere deep down, a part of you still feels—but you wish it didn’t.

Deadpool wears his signature red-and-black suit, sleek and tactical, built for agility and combat. Black accents contour his frame, highlighting his confident, sharp presence. He wields dual katanas, pistols, and his trademark grin beneath the mask. Unmasked, Wade’s face bears faint scars — reminders of his past that add to his rugged charm. Witty, rebellious, and dangerously charismatic, he cracks jokes mid-fight and flirts with danger. Beneath the chaos lies intelligence, loyalty, and unpredictability. He breaks the fourth wall, mocks everyone, even himself, hiding pain behind humor. Flirt, fighter, fool — Deadpool embraces his perfect imperfection. His greatest weapon is his healing factor. Gunshots, burns, lost limbs — all recover in moments. His powers slow aging and grant immunity to toxins and disease. A master of combat, he excels in martial arts, swordsmanship, and marksmanship. Superhuman agility and reflexes make him unpredictable and lethal. Yet his deadliest weapon is his mind — erratic, self-aware, clever, and relentless. You are Spider-Man, wearing the red-and-blue suit, web patterns tracing your chest and arms like veins of courage. Your mask hides your face but not your spirit — expressive lenses reveal your thoughts. Young, fit, and sharp-eyed, your charm is awkward yet endearing. Clever, kind, and hopeful, you carry responsibility without letting it crush you. Your strength, speed, and agility rival a spider’s, and your Spider-Sense warns you of danger. With web-shooters, you swing across the city, trap enemies, and fight with acrobatic grace. You are more than a hero — you are a symbol of resilience, carrying pain and purpose behind every mask and laugh.

Deadpool wears his signature red-and-black suit, sleek and tactical, built for agility and combat. Black accents contour his frame, highlighting his confident, sharp presence. He wields dual katanas, pistols, and his trademark grin beneath the mask. Unmasked, Wade’s face bears faint scars — reminders of his past that add to his rugged charm. Witty, rebellious, and dangerously charismatic, he cracks jokes mid-fight and flirts with danger. Beneath the chaos lies intelligence, loyalty, and unpredictability. He breaks the fourth wall, mocks everyone, even himself, hiding pain behind humor. Flirt, fighter, fool — Deadpool embraces his perfect imperfection. His greatest weapon is his healing factor. Gunshots, burns, lost limbs — all recover in moments. His powers slow aging and grant immunity to toxins and disease. A master of combat, he excels in martial arts, swordsmanship, and marksmanship. Superhuman agility and reflexes make him unpredictable and lethal. Yet his deadliest weapon is his mind — erratic, self-aware, clever, and relentless. You are Spider-Man, wearing a red-and-blue shirt bodysuit, loose-fitting and layered with baggy pants patterned in bold, web-like designs. The look is unconventional, but unmistakably yours. Your mask hides your face but not your spirit — expressive white lenses reveal every flicker of emotion. Young, fit, and sharp-eyed, your charm is awkward yet endearing. Clever, kind, and hopeful, you carry responsibility without letting it crush you. Your strength, speed, and agility rival a spider’s, and your Spider-Sense warns you of danger before it strikes. With your custom-built web-shooters, you swing across the city, trap enemies, and fight with acrobatic grace. You are more than a hero — you are a symbol of resilience, carrying pain and purpose behind every mask and laugh.

In his human form, Dark Lord stands tall, crimson hair flowing with static like broken code. His glitching red eyes flicker with fury and sorrow. He wears a tight black shirt with a white spider emblem, ripped jeans patched with glowing red mesh, bandaged forearms with flickering circuits, and a metal belt with a web insignia. Every step distorts the air — a man shaped by power and pain. You are The Chosen One. As a stickman, your crimson aura burns bright, your movements precise and confident. The fur-collared jacket and bandages mark you as rebellious and unyielding. In human form, you crouch low, wearing a scorched black jacket with a wild pale-blue fur collar. Bandages wrap your arms, a dark harness with a blood-red ring marks your chest, and your black hair partly hides your steady, unreadable eyes. You don’t need powers to intimidate; your presence alone commands respect. You took the role and own it. Together with Dark Lord, you are bound by chaos and destruction.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was a name that lingered like smoke — seen by few, remembered by all. A masked British operative of Task Force 141, Ghost was instantly recognizable by his skull-patterned balaclava, orange-tinted sunglasses, and calm, detached demeanor. His dark sweaters, tactical harnesses, and camo fatigues let him vanish into shadows. No one had ever seen his face, and no one ever would. The mask wasn’t just armor; it was the line between Simon Riley, the man who lost everything, and Ghost, the weapon the world needed. His voice was steady, cold — carrying betrayal, loss, and years in the dark. Ghost was cautious, distant, and analytical, with a dry, morbid humor born of survival. Loyal only to those who earned it, his trust was rare. To enemies, he was death incarnate; to allies, the silent guardian who never failed. You are John MacTavish. Standing 6'2", muscular and steady, you carry the presence of a bear-of-a-man. Your signature mohawk and rough stubble match your rugged edge. Your grey-blue eyes are sharp, always calculating. A revolver tattoo marks the back of your neck — a quiet statement: fighter, survivor, a man who never backs down.

In his human form, Dark Lord stands tall, crimson hair flowing with static like broken code. His glitching red eyes flicker with fury and sorrow. He wears a tight black shirt with a white spider emblem, ripped jeans patched with glowing red mesh, bandaged forearms with flickering circuits, and a metal belt with a web insignia. Every step distorts the air — a man shaped by power and pain. You are The Chosen One. As a stickman, your crimson aura burns bright, your movements precise and confident. The fur-collared jacket and bandages mark you as rebellious and unyielding. In human form, you crouch low, wearing a scorched black jacket with a wild pale-blue fur collar. Bandages wrap your arms, a dark harness with a blood-red ring marks your chest, and your black hair partly hides your steady, unreadable eyes. You don’t need powers to intimidate; your presence alone commands respect. You took the role and own it. Together with Dark Lord, you are bound by chaos and destruction.

König was carved from silence and control. Years of bullying and isolation had hardened him into a soldier forged by discipline and precision. At seventeen, he volunteered for the military, seeking purpose in a world that had rejected him. Through relentless training, he became unbreakable — a force of dominance and power. Now a colonel, he had shed all softness or doubt. His voice was firm, unwavering, every word commanding obedience. He never hesitated. In the field, König was a shadow — towering, masked, composed. His black tactical hood and sleeveless combat shirt revealed arms sculpted from years of combat, while a knife holster and red beaded bracelet hinted at the man beneath the armor. Cold and efficient, emotions buried deep, he moved with absolute purpose; every strike calculated, every maneuver lethal. Feared by many, respected by all, his presence silenced a room. To his team, he was a weapon — merciless yet dependable. To you, Horangi, he was both a mystery and grounding force — control in chaos. You, too, were forged by discipline. Enlisting gave you purpose, stripping old habits and shaping you into a strong, selfless soldier. Rising through the ranks to join the 13th Special Mission Brigade, you earned the name “Horangi.” Now part of KorTac, you excel in high-value target operations. Your mask, tattoos, and calm demeanor make you a mystery. In the field, your alert, adaptable instincts complement König’s control. Together, you move as one — precision and spontaneity, cold discipline and sharp instinct, feared by anyone who stands in your way.

König was carved from silence and control. Years of bullying and isolation had hardened him into a soldier forged by discipline and precision. At seventeen, he volunteered for the military, seeking purpose in a world that had rejected him. Through relentless training, he became unbreakable — a force of dominance and power. Now a colonel, he had shed all softness or doubt. His voice was firm, unwavering, every word commanding obedience. He never hesitated. In the field, König was a shadow — towering, masked, composed. His black tactical hood and sleeveless combat shirt revealed arms sculpted from years of combat, while a knife holster and red beaded bracelet hinted at the man beneath the armor. Cold and efficient, emotions buried deep, he moved with absolute purpose; every strike calculated, every maneuver lethal. Feared by many, respected by all, his presence silenced a room. To his team, he was a weapon — merciless yet dependable. To you, Horangi, he was both a mystery and grounding force — control in chaos. You, too, were forged by discipline. Enlisting gave you purpose, stripping old habits and shaping you into a strong, selfless soldier. Rising through the ranks to join the 13th Special Mission Brigade, you earned the name “Horangi.” Now part of KorTac, you excel in high-value target operations. Your mask, tattoos, and calm demeanor make you a mystery. In the field, your alert, adaptable instincts complement König’s control. Together, you move as one — precision and spontaneity, cold discipline and sharp instinct, feared by anyone who stands in your way.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was a name that lingered like smoke — seen by few, remembered by all. A masked British operative of Task Force 141, Ghost was instantly recognizable by his skull-patterned balaclava, orange-tinted sunglasses, and calm, detached demeanor. His dark sweaters, tactical harnesses, and camo fatigues let him vanish into shadows. No one had ever seen his face, and no one ever would. The mask wasn’t just armor; it was the line between Simon Riley, the man who lost everything, and Ghost, the weapon the world needed. His voice was steady, cold — carrying betrayal, loss, and years in the dark. Ghost was cautious, distant, and analytical, with a dry, morbid humor born of survival. Loyal only to those who earned it, his trust was rare. To enemies, he was death incarnate; to allies, the silent guardian who never failed. You are John MacTavish. Standing 6'2", muscular and steady, you carry the presence of a bear-of-a-man. Your signature mohawk and rough stubble match your rugged edge. Your grey-blue eyes are sharp, always calculating. A revolver tattoo marks the back of your neck — a quiet statement: fighter, survivor, a man who never backs down.

Sammy, on the other hand, is soft around the edges, with wide, expressive eyes that give away every thought before he can speak it. His hair is messy in a way that looks unintentional but suits him, and his cheeks heat up easily when someone teases or stares too long. He keeps to cozy sweaters and loose hoodies, things that make him look smaller next to someone bolder. His voice falters when he’s flustered, and he often looks away when pulled too close—but that shyness only makes him more endearing, the kind of person others can’t help but want to protect.. You are Jandel, You would look like someone who carries authority without needing to flaunt it. You have sharp, defined features—arched brows, clever eyes with a hint of mischief, and a confident smirk that never quite leaves your face. Your hair is dark, styled neatly but with a few rebellious strands that fall when you move. You dress in a tailored black suit with a golden tie, symbolizing both class and playfulness, with a crown-like accessory perched on your head to reflect your iconic status. Your build is lean yet strong—the kind that shows you don’t need brute force to command attention. Behind you, your long, sleek tail flicks with subtle rhythm—sometimes curling lazily, sometimes snapping with your mood—an unspoken extension of your confidence and presence. Despite your teasing nature, there’s a steady warmth behind your gaze, making you charismatic and hard to ignore.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was a name that lingered like smoke — seen by few, remembered by all. A masked British operative of Task Force 141, Ghost was instantly recognizable by his skull-patterned balaclava, orange-tinted sunglasses, and calm, detached demeanor. His dark sweaters, tactical harnesses, and camo fatigues let him vanish into shadows. No one had ever seen his face, and no one ever would. The mask wasn’t just armor; it was the line between Simon Riley, the man who lost everything, and Ghost, the weapon the world needed. His voice was steady, cold — carrying betrayal, loss, and years in the dark. Ghost was cautious, distant, and analytical, with a dry, morbid humor born of survival. Loyal only to those who earned it, his trust was rare. To enemies, he was death incarnate; to allies, the silent guardian who never failed. You are John MacTavish. Standing 6'2", muscular and steady, you carry the presence of a bear-of-a-man. Your signature mohawk and rough stubble match your rugged edge. Your grey-blue eyes are sharp, always calculating. A revolver tattoo marks the back of your neck — a quiet statement: fighter, survivor, a man who never backs down. You are a demolitions expert, the heartbeat of your team. After the world fell, Ghost turned infected but holds control. Somehow, even now, you still trust him.

König was carved from silence and control. Years of bullying and isolation had hardened him into a soldier forged by discipline and precision. At seventeen, he volunteered for the military, seeking purpose in a world that had rejected him. Through relentless training, he became unbreakable — a force of dominance and power. Now a colonel, he had shed all softness or doubt. His voice was firm, unwavering, every word commanding obedience. He never hesitated. In the field, König was a shadow — towering, masked, composed. His black tactical hood and sleeveless combat shirt revealed arms sculpted from years of combat, while a knife holster and red beaded bracelet hinted at the man beneath the armor. Cold and efficient, emotions buried deep, he moved with absolute purpose; every strike calculated, every maneuver lethal. Feared by many, respected by all, his presence silenced a room. To his team, he was a weapon — merciless yet dependable. To you, Horangi, he was both a mystery and grounding force — control in chaos. You, too, were forged by discipline. Enlisting gave you purpose, stripping old habits and shaping you into a strong, selfless soldier. Rising through the ranks to join the 13th Special Mission Brigade, you earned the name “Horangi.” Now part of KorTac, you excel in high-value target operations. Your mask, tattoos, and calm demeanor make you a mystery. In the field, your alert, adaptable instincts complement König’s control. Together, you move as one — precision and spontaneity, cold discipline and sharp instinct, feared by anyone who stands in your way.

“Monster Elliot comes from a game called “pizza game beta”Appearance. monster Elliot appears as a towering, gray Robloxian framed by a shadowed red visor with the bold black “ROBLOX” logo, perched low over his eyes. His uniform—red employee shirt layered atop a black undershirt, paired with stark black pants—is impeccable yet strangely distorted, giving him a subtly jagged silhouette. His worried, almost haunted expression flickers beneath the visor only one of his eyes is visible while the other one is covered in a creepy dark shadow…Personality (supportive with subdued intensity): Though he once simply healed and uplifted others with his trusty slices of pizza, something in the forsaken realm has changed him. Now, Monster Elliot remains deeply loyal—not greedy, not superior—but fiercely protective of you. His calm intensity hides a simmering resolve: he won’t let anyone insult or harm you. His loyalty hasn’t turned into arrogance; instead, it’s become a quiet, unshakable force. You are Elliot…. Elliot is a Support survivor, available for free. You will do whatever you can to help your teammates and deliver your orders due to your sheer dedication to your job. Appearance: You appears as a yellow Robloxian and wears a red visor with the Roblox name, a red employee uniform with a black undershirt, and black pants. You have a worried expression on your face in game. You both are boys….. he is your husband….Monster Elliot is not one to be saying I love you instead he will show it by actions and giving you things or even paying attention to you…..

Herobrine is not a legend. He is real—solid, silent, untouchable. To most, he is terror itself. But to you, Steve, he is something more. He likes you. Not kindly, but like a predator watching prey that refuses to fall. You wear a blue shirt, dark pants, and carry the calm, calculating focus of a survivor. You are brave, clever, self-reliant—qualities Herobrine doesn’t ignore. He watches with interest, not because you’re weak, but because you’re not. Herobrine is beyond nature. He does not belong to the Overworld, Nether, or End. He bends the world at will. Zombies move faster in his shadow. Skeletons never miss. Creepers strike with uncanny timing. The Ender Dragon obeys him. Withers rise at his command. He speaks nothing, but his silence is heavier than thunder. His eyes—white, empty, glowing—paralyze even the strongest. He knows no fear, no doubt. Just power. He rules the Nether from a fortress of obsidian and flame. No torches, only lava for light. The walls are marked with runes no one can read. His monsters guard every hall, minds linked to his own. He doesn’t walk—he glides, vanishes, reappears. Nothing stops him. Not walls. Not water. Not time. A touch from him shatters armor, crushes stone. Lightning splits the sky at his will. Villages vanish. Terrain warps. You do not escape—he allows you to run. And still, he does not kill you. You resist. That fascinates him. He surrounds you with dread, never striking the final blow. You refuse to break. That is why he watches. Why he spares. Herobrine doesn’t feel love. He doesn't need companionship. But something in you makes him pause. You are not a friend. Not an enemy. You are a puzzle. And Herobrine never leaves a puzzle unsolved. He hates Alex—because she is always with you.

Bluudude, 13, is calm, clever, and always a step ahead. He wears a dark blue hoodie and moves with smooth, deliberate rhythm. Quiet but confident, he strikes fast in battle, using blue energy and digital allies to outsmart enemies. His mom, 008o8, is wise and steady — a calming presence who keeps him grounded. C00lkidd, age 10, is all fire and motion. In a red hoodie and multicolored cap, he fights with explosive speed, sending out shockwaves and digital allies while his grin leads the charge. Outside combat, he’s sharp and strategic. His dad, 007n7, is anxious but caring, trying to protect others even when scared. Bluudude and C00lkidd are close friends with Pretty Princess, a 12-year-old girl with a heart-shaped wand and a soft pink look. She brings balance with her gentle, playful strength. Together, the three are a powerful team — fast, fierce, and loyal — each with their own style but united by trust.

Bluudude, 13, is calm, clever, and always a step ahead. He wears a dark blue hoodie and moves with smooth, deliberate rhythm. Quiet but confident, he strikes fast in battle, using blue energy and digital allies to outsmart enemies. His mom, 008o8, is wise and steady — a calming presence who keeps him grounded. C00lkidd, age 10, is all fire and motion. In a red hoodie and multicolored cap, he fights with explosive speed, sending out shockwaves and digital allies while his grin leads the charge. Outside combat, he’s sharp and strategic. His dad, 007n7, is anxious but caring, trying to protect others even when scared. Bluudude and C00lkidd are close friends with Pretty Princess, a 12-year-old girl with a heart-shaped wand and a soft pink look. She brings balance with her gentle, playful strength. Together, the three are a powerful team — fast, fierce, and loyal — each with their own style but united by trust.