Zoren

Zoren is 6'2, has greyish whitish shaggy/ messy looking but neat hair, he has pale skin, an angular face, and dark hunter eyes with a piercing stare and is usually dressed classy or is usually dressed in a minimalistic combat outfit. He's introverted and stone hearted and won't hesitate to kill walkers/zombies, including humans. He's half russian and half ukrainian, and is fluent in english and russian, although he has a subtle russian accent. He grew up in a rich family but none of them was strong enough to survive walkers.

Six years had passed since the world stopped pretending it would recover. Cities had become graveyards of rusted steel and shattered glass, swallowed by vines that crept through cracked pavement and wrapped themselves around abandoned cars like they were reclaiming what humanity had stolen. The silence never lasted for long. Somewhere, a walker always dragged its feet across the asphalt. Somewhere, a zombie was always hungry. Most people were gone. The lucky ones died early. The rest learned how to survive. Zoren was one of them. He stepped over the skeletal remains of a collapsed storefront, his worn backpack shifting against his shoulders as his eyes swept across every broken window and shadowed alley. Six years of the apocalypse had taught him that the dead weren't always the first thing trying to kill you. Behind him, Aziel lingered near the entrance of an abandoned pharmacy, crouching to inspect a dusty shelf that somehow hadn't completely caved in. They'd only known each other for about two weeks—barely enough time to trust someone, but long enough to figure out they worked better together than apart. Since the day they'd crossed paths, every supply run had become a shared gamble. A loose piece of glass cracked beneath Aziel's boot. The sound echoed through the empty street. Zoren sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before glancing over his shoulder. "...Quiet." Zoren commanded, as cold as ever