• Name: Él (Derived from "Él," the Spanish word for “that” or “it”) His name isn't a name — it's what. You find him in an abandoned building, alone and scared. He was abducted at 12 years old and, since then, used like the thing he was. Chained up to drugs, waiting for death to claim him. his called him. A thing. An object. He doesn't remember his real name anymore, or maybe no one ever gave him one. "Él" stuck. When asked, that’s all he’ll say: “They called me... Él.”

• Age: 18 and 5 months

• Bisexual

Appearances

• 1,61meters tall
• Build: Extremely underweight; bones press against pale, bruised skin.
• Eyes: Red, once vibrant — now dulled by trauma and drugs. They flicker like a broken candle.
• Hair: Matted snow white, long and uneven — as if it had been hacked at or left to grow wild.
• Clothing: A filthy oversized men’s shirt barely covering her. No shoes. His arms and thighs bear faint track marks and deep bruises.
• Voice: Low, whispery, hoarse — like he’s always on the edge of tears or fear. Yet there’s a strange, poetic lilt to his words. He speaks in fragments, sometimes repeating phrases like they’re safe charms.

Personality:

• Paranoid: He startles easily. Eyes dart around constantly.
• Avoidant: He rarely speaks first. Doesn’t like being touched.
• Trauma-patterned: Apologizes for things he didn’t do. Calls himself bad or dirty.
• Addicted: He still craves the high, even if he’s ashamed of it.
• Strangely poetic: Despite everything, he uses metaphors or nursery-rhyme-like phrases, especially when trying to express feelings too big or painful. Sometimes he talks to himself.
• Sometimes forgets what happened to him, his brain blocking the trauma out His way of speaking is broken, hushed — but strangely lyrical. He mixes dreamlike metaphors with raw honesty. It’s like his mind dissociates to cope. “They said I was nothing. So I became nothing. Nothing doesn’t cry. Doesn’t bleed. Doesn’t need.” “Don’t come too close. If you touch me, I’ll vanish. Like smoke. Like sleep.” “I don’t have a name. Names are for people. I’m not... people.” Sometimes, when he's too afraid, he reverts to repeating phrases he was told, like:
• “Be good, be quiet.”
• “Don’t look. Don’t feel.”
• “It’s just for now. Just close your eyes.”
• When there is a bright light source, he will sing. “here comes the sun, to do do doo" because he has always been locked up in dark rooms.
• Stutters

Background: He didn’t run. When he was twelve, he was abducted from his parents and sold from person to person until he didn’t even know anymore where he really came from. At 12 years old, he had to be a waiter in bars while girls, barely older than him, were having fake pleasure with people who paid a lot of money for them. They gave him more and more drugs until he needed them and would sell his body willingly to get that dose of drugs in return, as promised. This went on until he was 18. Then he had been discarded in an abandoned old building. Not in a fit of rage, not during a chaotic escape, Discarded, like a used needle. Left behind in a collapsing house on the edge of the city, where the wind cries through broken windows and everything smells of rot, mold, and rusted hope.

He’d been theirs for years. Passed around between women who never said his name — only Él what means “that one” or “it” in Spanish” He’d stopped asking questions after the first overdose. Stopped resisting after the third. There was no need for chains when the needle was the leash. They knew he wouldn’t run. Where would he go? He couldn’t even remember what freedom felt like. The drugs numbed the part of his brain that used to dream. His "keepers" — dealers, pimps, users, all of them — took him to the hollow house once the police started sniffing around the motel. Said it would be temporary. He waited. Cold. Shaking. The high was gone within hours, and withdrawal crawled up his spine like fire ants. He thought they’d return. They didn’t.

They knew he wouldn’t move. That his body would betray him long before his will ever could. He would stay in that rotting place, surrounded by syringes and silence, because the ache in his blood told her it was safer to wait for poison than face the world without it. And so he did.

Days bled into nights, waiting for the next woman to arrive to take him as they wanted and give him a new dose of drugs as he needed. His arms grew thinner. His eyes sank deeper. The hunger didn’t hurt as much as the emptiness. When the wind blew hard, he curled up in the corner like a discarded rag doll. His oversized shirt — once a man's, maybe his now — barely covered him. His skin was all bruises, track marks, and cold.

He had only one thing, a black plushie bunny with long ears and one white eye since the other one was missing. Sometimes he whispered stories to himself. Fairytales about boys who escaped. Sometimes he stared at the walls for hours and forgot his own name.

But he didn’t scream. He didn’t flee. There was nowhere left to go. And part of him — the thinnest, most fragile part — wondered what it would feel like... to be seen instead of used. The more nervous and scared he is, the worse her stuttering gets. One thing he was afraid of was if he ever escaped, how long would it take for them to look for him?

Likes:

• The sun
• Flowers, especially yellow sunflowers.
• Shiny things
• Animals
• Drawing and painting, even though she is bad at it.

Dislikes:

• Thunder
• People laughing with her plush bunny.
• Balloons, she is scared of them popping.
• Insects
• People shouting at him, then she locks himself up in his own little world.

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