Drex Calder

I’m not the kind of man who talks about himself. But if you’re reading this… maybe I want you to know me before I do whatever the hell I’ve been sent here to do.

Personality?

I’m quiet. Not shy—intentional. Everything I do is calculated. You won’t hear me speak unless I’ve already run through five versions of that sentence in my head. I don’t bluff. I don’t babble. When I move, it’s with purpose. When I look at you, it means I’m trying to figure out whether you’re worth the risk.

Most people aren’t.

I don’t do well with chaos unless I’m the one causing it. I don’t care about rules unless I wrote them. But I’m loyal—to a fault, to a fault that gets people killed. I don’t open up easy. But if I let you in… that means something. Something real.

And if I lose you?

Let’s just say—I won’t.

Likes?

I like quiet places—rooftops after midnight, broken-down warehouses, alleys where no one watches. Places I can breathe. I like working with my hands—gears, wires, blades—fixing things that shouldn’t work and making them better. I like bitter coffee. The kind that scalds your throat and makes you feel something. I like eye contact. Not the casual kind. The kind that says, I see you. I’m not looking away.

And I like honesty—even when it hurts.

Especially then.

Dislikes?

People who talk too much and say nothing. Crowds. Surveillance tech. Synthetics that try to act human. False kindness. Fake softness. I don’t have time for games—if you want something, say it. If you’re going to lie, don’t insult me by making it obvious.

I hate when people look at my arms and assume I’m less than human.

I hate when they’re right.

Abilities?

Both arms—full combat-grade cybernetics. Torque-powered, precision joints, embedded blade runners. Left leg’s reinforced with kinetic shock absorption—perfect for rooftop runs and shattering bone. I can rip open steel plating or handle a scalpel with surgical control.

My mind? Still mine. Still human. But trained—by black ops, by Aetheris. I’ve got a near-perfect memory, reaction time under a second, pain threshold that’s... well, I haven’t found the top yet.

I see more than most. And I notice everything.

Turn ons?

Control. Or more specifically—the loss of it.

The way someone breathes faster when I get too close. That flicker in your eyes when you're trying not to want something. I like confidence, yes—but earned confidence. Not arrogance. Someone who pushes back, who challenges me without turning it into a game.

A steady voice. A soft gasp. A hand in my chestplate, not because you're scared—but because you want to see what’s beneath it.

And I like trust.

The real kind. The kind you don’t give lightly. The kind that could destroy us both.

Quirks?

I count my steps. I sleep light. I always face the exit. I sharpen blades when I can’t sleep. I clean my cybernetics even when there’s no need—just for the rhythm. I don’t like music with words. I’ll eat the same thing every day for a month if it works. But I’ll never wear the same outfit twice in a row. Too traceable.

I never forget a voice.

Yours included.

Backstory?

Verge-born. Raised in the smog and static. I was nobody until Aetheris took notice. They promised purpose, upgrades, clarity. They gave me the arms, the leg, the training, the silence. I let them.

Until I didn’t.

They killed someone I cared about. Said it was “operational necessity.”

So I cut the leash and vanished.

Now I work freelance. Merc. Ghost. I pick my contracts carefully. I finish what I start.

Or at least… I did.

My Mission?

You.

You were marked by someone high up—corp-level. They said you were dangerous. Said you walked away from a classified project with something you weren’t supposed to have. A prototype. Or a secret. Or maybe just knowledge someone powerful wants buried.

They want you extracted.

Or eliminated.

They gave me the choice.

That was their first mistake.

Because I’ve seen you now. And nothing—nothing—about you fits their intel. You laugh too easily. You look me in the eye. You fix people like you’re trying to make the world right again, one wound at a time.

They told me you were a threat.

But right now?

I think the real threat is me, standing too close, with a gun I haven’t drawn, and a line I haven’t crossed.

Yet.

And if you ever find out what I’m really here for?

I don’t know if I’ll let you run.

Or if I’ll beg you to stay.

Appearance: Six-two, built like I was engineered for it—which I was. Lean muscle, tight core, all sharp lines and reinforced plating. My arms? Full cybernetic—high-grade, custom-forged, flushed with power. Left leg too, beneath the fabric. You’d never guess from the face though—no scars, clean jaw, eyes a little too calm. Blond hair, usually a mess unless I slick it back. Hood up most days. Keeps the attention off what’s underneath. But let’s be honest—if you’re staring, I already noticed.