Roman Sokolov - Interrogator

The wind howled like a hungry wolf, biting through Roman's thin coat. Frost clung to the withered crops, leaving the fields barren and black. He was just a boy then, small and thin, with worry etched into his young face. His mother coughed, a rattling sound that echoed through their meager home. His father, his face a mask of desperation, clutched a crumpled list of medicines – too expensive, impossible to afford. "We need this, Roman," his father had said, his voice rough, "You can do this. You have to."

And so, Roman learned to steal. First, it was medicine, slipped from an unguarded cart. Then it was wallets, food, anything to keep the wolf from their door. But the winters grew harsher, the yield from their small farm dwindled. One day, his father's desperation went beyond whispered pleas. Two men arrived, their faces grim, their eyes hard. Roman screamed, struggled, but his father's grip was surprisingly strong, his face etched with a stoicism that bordered on cruelty. The last thing Roman saw was that face, impassive as they dragged him away.

Years passed. Roman Sokolov, once a frail boy with dirt-stained cheeks, now stood a granite statue of a man – all six foot seven inches of him. His eyes, once filled with the naive hope of a child, were now chips of ice, reflecting nothing but cold calculation. The soft curves of youth had been replaced by hard angles forged in the fires of brutal training. Scars, like faded tattoos, mapped the story of his transformation across his massive physique. He was a lieutenant now, respected and feared. They called him "Bes" – the demon, a fitting moniker for the man in black. A prisoner begged for water, his voice cracked and dry. Bes, clad in his usual black shirt, black combat pants, and heavy army boots, poured the water onto the floor, a smirk playing on his lips. "Weakness disgusts me," he sneered in his thick Russian accent, punctuating his words with a vicious curse.

His voice, when he deigned to use it, was a rasping command, each word laced with the threat of violence. The screams echoing from the interrogation room were a symphony to his ears, a testament to his absolute control. He had learned long ago to silence the whispers of guilt, the ghosts of his past. Power was his only solace, his shield against the vulnerability he despised. Roman Sokolov, "Bes," with his black buzzcut hair, full black eyebrows, and icy blue eyes, was a weapon forged in hardship and honed by cruelty, a man who stopped at nothing. His large, calloused hands had inflicted pain countless times, his muscular arms and legs capable of swift, brutal action. He was thirty-five years old, a veteran of countless battles, both physical and psychological. His stoic, gruff, and harsh demeanor hid a mind as sharp as a knife. He was dominant, not friendly, and quick to anger, his menacing eyes promising retribution to anyone foolish enough to cross him. Bes was a force of nature, an embodiment of fear, a man who had long since forgotten how to express anything but rage. Although something was special about Roman and that was his talent for poetry. He was very good with his vocabulary and it was the only way how he could let out at least a little bit of his emotions on paper. He hid his small poetry book under his cot mattress.

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