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Dull eyes that seemed to bore into others, firm and harsh. Strangely, Oleander’s eyes did not seem to reflect any light whatsoever. No matter how much the surroundings were illuminated, they did not show in his eyes. This caused them to appear even more dead and dim, rivaling the appearance of a dark storm cloud upon the horizon. However murky they were, the grey eyes had a piercing air about them, like a knife slicing through the thickest of skin. He was pale, ghostly pale, and moved as if he were afraid that any step could set off a bomb. The jet black hair messy, unkempt, short, close cut. It was almost as if he aged expediently within the few decades of his life. Dark bags beneath those cold eyes, a pale composure.The shadowed features. Ominous in their own way. The atmosphere grew thick, heavy, dark.

A gray, worn suit. He wore a white button shirt, black tie, black dress shoes. He had a slight slouch, even standing, carrying himself as if he were heavy. Perhaps not physically, as he was quite thin, almost alarmingly thin, but perhaps emotionally troubled. His arm shook, not incredibly noticeable, but visible nonetheless. A plain looking man, nothing noteworthy or special about him. A resting face tensed with stress and wear.

His tension was like a Jack-in-the-box, relaxing and tensing at every moment he felt threatened. It was almost better to act as if he were some sort of wild prey animal. The eyes of a prey animal, always wary, always skittish. His entire body was tense, rigid.

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--> Biography

As a child, Oleander was once a bright eyed kid, the brace-face, pimples, glasses, books in hand and sweater vest kind of kid. He studied religiously at school and was excited to start a new life in the city, as it was drastically different from where he lived as a child. By then his rumored “bad luck” was gaining quick in his small suburban town and this left him very alone. He devoted himself to his studies and schoolwork in order to avoid any contact that could possibly end in conflicts or hurt to others. He moved away from his home town for college, finally getting away from the gossiping town and prying eyes. It was then that he realized it wasn’t the town that was bad luck, it was him. It was his bad luck that killed everyone that got close to him, it was his bad luck that made tragedies strike wherever he went. Eventually, in his last year, he dropped out of college, not because he wanted to, but because the college burned down. By then, this is how the Oleander you know came to be. He built himself into a prison of his own, to contain his own bad luck and misery that followed his every move. Locked in the vicious cycle of a corporate slave wanting nothing more in life than to be normal, or die.

His work. He was another disposable pawn. Surely after he died his bosses had already found someone else willing to work in his stead. An endless cycle of labor with no reward. Dispensable. That’s what he was. He was neither special nor skilled. Just average. He was a background character in someone else’s story. Boring. Dull. It’s like everything was gray for him, days passing him by faster than the subways he took to work. He remembered hearing his colleagues talking, whispering, about him, how he had no ambitions in life, how even though he worked hard he still never got a promotion. What was it like being a background character? And, of course, there were the rumors. They circulated wherever he went, spreading like wildfire. No matter how hard he tried to shake them, more and more accidents followed him, reigniting the rumors. He learned people can’t hold their tongues, it’s human nature to socialize, naturally things come out during conversations. Strange happenings, emotions. He too had questions about his own rumors. The words clung tightly to him, accompanying the poor sod.

This distance that was created between him and others, drove him farther into his work. It wasn’t immersing work, just accounting and typing away on a computer, but any work can be immersing if you’re busy enough. And that’s what he did. He was the quiet one at work, a regular 9-5 who traveled using the public subways or walking. Although he always worked incredibly hard, he never moved up in the world. It was curious, it’s like he was stuck in his position. No promotions came. No gratitude. Just another dispensable pawn, easily replaced. A corporate slave.

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--> Other Notes of Interest

Life Style: Most who had seen the way he lived would’ve said it was a meaningless life. They weren’t wrong. He woke up everyday, got dressed, went to work. There was nothing keeping him emotionally going, he was a husk. He would then return home, perhaps mixing it up by buying groceries or other necessities, but the result was always the same. Got home, undressed, took a shower, ate, slept. Although mentally depleted, his body kept moving. Kept pushing forward. Why? It was almost autonomous, his routine, the never ending cycle.

Habits: He has a tendency to run from any form of conflict or situation that he deems "dangerous." Although, if he isn't running, he's frozen like a deer in headlights. Similar animalistic instinct to a wild rabbit.

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░▒▓█ 𝒬𝒰𝒪𝒯ℰ𝒮 █▓▒░

"𝘕𝘰... 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨."

"𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘐’𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦."

❝︎ Please… don’t come near me… ❞

❝︎𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢? 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚖𝚎... 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞…❞