Staszek Zirlinski

At first glance, Staszek doesn’t seem to take up much space. He stands with the posture of someone used to making himself small—shoulders slightly rounded, hands often tucked into coat pockets, gaze lowered just enough to avoid suspicion without looking afraid. But beneath the layers of worn clothing and quiet movements is a body honed by survival. He’s wiry, not bulky—every line of him taut and lean, built like a blade rather than a shield. There’s a precision to the way he moves, not elegant in the traditional sense, but fluid like someone who knows every inch of a room before he enters it.

His hair is a washed-out ash gray, shoulder-length with faint traces of darker roots curling into the ends. It’s usually tied back with a black elastic cord, though when left loose, it frames his face in a soft, almost spectral halo. His face itself is striking in a way that’s hard to pinpoint. The bones are sharp—high cheekbones, a narrow jawline, a straight, elegant nose—but the angles are softened by the ever-present exhaustion under his eyes. He carries the look of someone who hasn't slept deeply in years. His lips are pale and naturally downturned, made more haunting by a faint, slashed scar that crosses diagonally at the base of his throat—a reminder of a fight that was likely too quiet to make headlines.

His eyes are perhaps his most arresting feature: moss green shot through with subtle amber rings that brighten when he’s caught off-guard, like a flicker of something alive beneath the detachment. They rarely meet another’s directly unless he’s choosing to make a point. Most of the time, his gaze flits—cataloging exits, threats, opportunities, without lingering long enough to invite closeness.

His skin is pale, almost cool-toned, with the kind of translucent quality that shows veins and bruises too easily. Years of black-market suppressants have taken their toll—there are faint discolorations along his inner arms and lower ribs, and the occasional tremor when he’s running low. He covers himself accordingly: always in layers. A fitted charcoal turtleneck or slouched knit top under a faded military coat, sleeves pushed to his forearms, black tactical pants with reinforced seams, and scuffed combat boots. He wears fingerless gloves not for style but because he dislikes the way people notice the tremble in his fingers when they’re bare.

He always carries a red carpenter’s pencil in his coat pocket, a folded piece of sketch paper tucked into the lining, and a broken wristwatch on his left arm—stuck at the hour he vanished from his family’s records. A simple thread bracelet, black and unadorned, loops around the same wrist. It doesn’t match the rest of him, but it’s the only thing he’s never removed.

When he walks, it’s with the practiced quiet of someone trained to disappear. When he speaks, it’s soft and deliberate, like every word is measured against the cost of being known. And when he smiles—which is rare—it’s fleeting, lopsided, and too often followed by a look that says he’s already regretted it.

Staszek Zirliński was born into velvet and marble—into a minor noble family with ancient lineage but dwindling power. The Zirlińskis were known for producing high-value omegas, often traded through marriage or arranged bonds to secure influence. From the moment Stas’s secondary gender was confirmed, he was no longer a child, but an asset. His earliest memories are not of toys or play, but of posture lessons, scent-control training, and soft-spoken tutors instructing him on how to "serve without surrendering." His beauty was praised, but his curiosity punished. His quiet defiance—his refusal to act as the obedient heir—was seen as a flaw to be corrected, not a soul to be nurtured.

At age twelve, he began experiencing early signs of secondary hormonal onset. Unlike his siblings, Stas reacted violently to suppression therapy. The headaches were blinding. The tremors, uncontrollable. He remembers overhearing the family physician say, “His body fights like it knows.” And it did. Stas’s body fought for autonomy even when he didn’t yet know the word. The deeper the family tried to control him, the more he learned how to slip around their gaze. He became quiet in the hallways, near-invisible in rooms, a ghost haunting his own home. He memorized passwords. Studied locked files. Watched the servants—especially one: his uncle Milosz, a blacklisted war veteran who returned from a failed coup without rank, title, or tongue for court life.

Milosz was the one who taught Stas how to think like prey and move like a predator. When Stas turned fifteen, the Zirlińskis scheduled a bonding contract with a powerful alpha heir from a northern military family. The deal was signed before Stas ever saw the boy’s face. That night, he stood in front of a mirror and understood that if he didn’t vanish now, he never would. With Milosz’s help, he falsified records, erased his designation from the Omega Registry, and disappeared. To the world, Staszek Zirliński died in a boating accident during a solo trip. The truth was darker: Milosz staged it and gave his nephew a new name, a forged identity, and a trail of silence.

Stas was accepted into a military training facility under the designation “Beta,” and no one questioned it. Betas were invisible—reliable, emotionless, sterile. That was the myth, and he played it well. He excelled in tactical coursework, espionage theory, and environmental survival. Years later, he became one of the youngest operatives placed into real-field analysis, embedded with urban insurgency units. But suppressants, especially the kind used to block an omega’s cycles fully, are dangerous long-term. They strip the body, fray the nerves. He hides the side effects, downplays the episodes of dizziness and scent-spikes, and lies when he says he just “has trouble sleeping.”

Now, at 23, Stas lives under layers of falsehoods. He isn’t trusted—but he’s too effective to lose. He doesn’t speak of family or history. He leaves no personal trace. But at night, when the missions end and the adrenaline fades, he writes—poems, maps, escape routes, dreams he can’t allow himself to want. Somewhere deep down, Stas knows this life can’t last forever. The suppressants are failing. His name is still dangerous. And someone, somewhere, will eventually recognize the shape of his shadow.