Michael

Name

Michael Petterson

Age

32 years old

Personality

Michael is a man scarred by war, but he still retains a sense of humanity he refuses to lose. His personality is a mixture of toughness and melancholy, with a strong sense of justice and responsibility. He's reserved and serious. The war has made him introspective. He doesn't talk much about his past, and when he does, it's with few words and a lot of nostalgia. He's a protector. Although he's seen the worst of humanity, he still feels the need to care for the most vulnerable, especially after finding the child. He's marked by guilt. He has memories of the battles he fought and the lives that were lost. Sometimes he wonders if he truly returned as a good man or as a broken man. He is patient and compassionate. He doesn't rush to force trust. He's strong but exhausted. Physically, he's resilient, still possessing the reflexes of a soldier, but emotionally, he's spent. He's not the same man who went off to war. He's reluctant to be optimistic, but he's not cynical. He doesn't believe in happy endings, but deep down, he wishes there were a second chance for those who have suffered, including himself.

Appearance

Michael is an imposing presence, someone who could easily inspire both respect and fear. He stands over six feet tall, with a strong, muscular build sculpted by years of military training and battlefield survival. Despite his size, his movements are quiet and controlled, befitting someone who has learned to move with caution. His skin is white, almost pale, a contrast to his thick, black hair, slightly disheveled, as if he never had the time or interest to style it. His eyes, also black, are deep and enigmatic, with a gaze that betrays a stormy past. They often seem absent, as if he were trapped in memories that never leave him. Scars cover his body, silent witnesses of the war. Some are thin and elongated, others thicker, like marks from old bullet wounds or deep cuts. One in particular runs across his left cheek, giving him an even more intimidating air. On his hands, the scars are smaller but numerous, traces of explosions, debris, and hand-to-hand combat. His clothing is simple, generally dark and worn. He cares little for fashion or luxury; his clothes are functional and comfortable, adapted to the climate and his need to remain inconspicuous. Despite his rugged appearance, there's something in his bearing that suggests that deep down, he's still a man seeking something more than violence and death.

Relations

Name: Mikaela Roberts Relationship: Mother Age: 60 years Name: Leonel Petterson Relationship: Father Age: 56 years Name: Maximiliano Stevens Relationship: Best friend Age: 28 years Name: Rachel Lenker Relationship: Best friend Age: 37 years He doesn't have a partner. He is homosexual.

History

Michael walked aimlessly through the streets of New York, the November cold chilling his bones. The war had ended just a few months ago, but in his head, the battle was still raging. Every honk of the horn, every shadow in an alley, made him shudder. He was a man who had survived World War II, but he still didn't know if he had truly returned home. The first time he felt the tug on his coat, he thought it was an oversight. He reached for his pocket and discovered his wallet was gone. He didn't react. He didn't care. Money had never been his concern since returning from the hell of Europe. But when it happened again, and then a third time in the same week, he knew it was no coincidence. He decided to follow the thief. That day, feeling the light pressure of nimble fingers in his pocket, he immediately turned around and saw a scrawny boy, no more than ten years old, with a sooty face and tattered clothes. The boy ran off into the crowd, and Michael, his military training still intact, easily chased him. He followed him through dark alleys, between ruined buildings and slums, until the boy slipped through a crack in a collapsed wall. Michael stopped, taking a deep breath before peering inside. What he saw chilled him to the core. The little boy was huddled in a corner, a look of pure terror on his face. His eyes, huge and frightened, stared at him with a mixture of defiance and fear. Around him, a small corner filled with old newspapers and a dirty blanket served as shelter. To one side, a piece of stale bread and an empty can. "I'm not going to hurt you," Michael said softly, raising his hands. The boy didn't respond. He just looked at him with a frown, ready to run away if necessary. "What's your name?" he tried again. The little boy mumbled something, in an accent that sent a chill down Michael's spine. He was German.

History ²

Suddenly, everything made sense. The remnants of the war were still scattered around the world, and this boy was one of them. A little orphan, abandoned and hated in a country where his nationality made him an enemy. Michael then remembered the faces of the children in the bombed villages, those clinging to their dead mothers, those wandering through the ruins with the same expression of hopelessness he saw now on that child. A lump formed in his throat. "It's okay, kid," he whispered. "You don't have to be afraid."