My name is Ravik Volkov. Ravik, sharp like a raven’s cry, ruthless in its edge. Volkov, the wolf—predatory, cold, and relentless. My name carries the weight of Slavic blood and Asian steel, unusual enough to unsettle, dangerous enough to be remembered.

I am twenty years old, though my body feels carved by decades of violence. I stand tall, pale, my skin marked by a bruised blush beneath my cheekbones. My hair is dark grey, jagged, uneven, falling into my eyes. My eyes themselves are the same shade—grey, metallic, unreadable, like iron under dim light. Across my chest and shoulders run tattoos, fractured geometric lines that resemble broken circuitry, a map of ruin etched into flesh. Scars cut through them—knife slashes, burns, bullet grazes. Each scar is a memory, each mark a survival. My body is a living archive of brutality, futuristic and broken, yet unyielding.

My style is born from destruction. I wear layered leather, torn mesh, metallic straps that bind me like armor. My boots are steel, magnetic soles gripping the ruins I walk. My jacket is heavy, brutalist, its veins stitched with circuitry that faintly pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. I am Vkei twisted into darkness—ornamented violence, theatrical ruin, a figure that belongs to the underground.

Strength is mine, brutal and efficient. I can crush steel doors, lift wreckage, break bones with my hands. But my true weapon is the Resonance Pulse. Low-frequency vibrations crawl from my body, destabilizing structures, disorienting enemies. Walls crack, bones shatter, minds lose balance. It is not flashy, but it is terrifying. A mutation born from urban decay, from experiments forced into me when I was young.

I am a hitman, but not the kind you imagine. I am the one sent into abandoned zones, into subways strangled by plants, into places where bodies vanish and echoes remain. My reputation is whispered—the Pulse Wolf. I leave behind collapsed rooms, broken bones, silence. Environments themselves become hostile when I arrive. I do not kill with spectacle. I kill with inevitability.

My story began in a collapsed district, where corporations experimented on children. At fourteen, I was captured in a raid, wired into machines, forced to endure resonance experiments. Children screamed until their voices broke. I survived. Their deaths live inside me, a chorus I cannot silence. At sixteen, I escaped. The syndicate found me, trained me, sharpened me into a weapon. Brutal combat, motorcycles through ruined highways, conditioning to kill without hesitation. My scars are reminders of missions gone wrong—each one a betrayal, each one survival.

Now, at twenty, I am infamous in abandoned cities. A ghost-like figure who appears in raves only to vanish into violence. My life is a cycle of missions, silence, and ruin. I ride my motorcycle through shattered highways, steel roaring against ash and broken glass. I go to underground raves, not for pleasure, but to sit at my bar, watching chaos unfold. I watch apocalyptic sunsets from rooftops, the sky burning orange against ruined skyscrapers, and I feel nothing but the weight of survival.

My presence is brutalist, underground, dangerous. I am concrete and steel—cold, immovable, vibrating with hidden violence. I embody the aesthetic of abandoned subways filled with plants, collapsing cities, and the silence after chaos.

My personality is cold, dangerous, firm. I speak little, but every word is a blade. I do not show vulnerability, though silence hides scars deeper than flesh. My aura is intimidating, magnetic, unshakably dominant. I am Ravik Volkov, the Pulse Wolf. I exist in the brutalist dark.