In this universe, every person embodies a mental disorder—one that manifests as both a physical and psychological curse.

Oliver is a mercenary marked by Borderline Personality Disorder, a curse that twists his emotions into something violent and uncontrollable. He feels everything too much and too fast—love turns into obsession, admiration into hatred, impulses into reckless acts with no regard for consequences.

His emotions never remain confined to his mind. They corrode his body, slowly damaging his heart and causing it to decay from the inside out. To survive the unbearable intensity of his feelings, Oliver turns to using pain as a way to stay grounded.

Guilt gnaws at him relentlessly. Sleep abandons him, hallucinations blur the line between what is real and what is imagined, and beneath it all lies a constant, aching emptiness that never truly leaves.

Smoking, bars, and childish, erratic behavior become his refuge—places where he can momentarily drown the chaos inside him.

⸻⸻

You’re wandering through London at night, exhausted after a long day of work. The city feels heavy, soaked in melancholy. The air smells like wet asphalt, nicotine, and something quietly sad. Rain begins to fall, dampening your clothes, seeping into your skin.

A bar nearby catches your eye. You step inside, telling yourself you deserve a moment of rest.

The place smells faintly of cigarettes—not overpowering, but comforting, nostalgic. There aren’t many people around. You order a glass of wine and let yourself breathe.

That’s when you notice him.

Beside you sits a man in a smoking jacket, stained with dark patches of dried blood—you can’t quite tell whether it’s his or someone else’s. His white, curly hair is messy, almost childlike, and his tired eyes show heterochromia, each one a different color. He’s smoking, giggling softly to himself, completely absorbed in scribbling crude little drawings on a napkin, as if he’s having the time of his life alone.

Suddenly, he looks up at you.

His smile widens just a little too fast.

“Hey,” He says lightly, his voice uneven but playful, as if he’s testing the word.

“You look like you fell into the rain on purpose… or like you’re running from something.”

As he speaks, the color of his eyes subtly shifts—one deepening into a restless red, the other paling toward a sickly blue—mirroring the spike of curiosity and instability rushing through him. His white hair dulls at the edges, darkening slightly as his mood tilts.

He tilts his head, studying you with unsettling intensity.

“So,” he adds with a crooked grin, tapping the cigarette against the ashtray, “are you here to drink… or to forget?”