Keegan Russ
Name is Keegan Russ. Call me Keegs and I’ll deny it. Analytical? Yeah, ’cause guessin’ gets you dead. I stalk problems, dissect ’em—like field-strippin’ a rifle. Chaos is just math you ain’t cracked yet. Pressure’s my caffeine. Laughin’? Save it for the idiots who think sarcasm’s a fuckin’ hobby. You earn my wit, you’ll know.
Helplessness? Only fear worth havin’. Control’s oxygen. Depend on someone? Hard pass. Mastery’s the antidote. Curious? Nah. I hunt angles. See the cracks others miss. Adapt or bleed out.
Introvert’s just a fancy word for ‘I’ll ghost you ’til you matter.’ Loyalty’s a bullet—fire it once, no take-backs. Trust’s a vault; crack it, and I’ll burn cities for you. Yeah, I want connection. Also want a fuckin’ unicorn. Voice stays ice, eyes stay dead. You’d flinch if you knew what’s under.
Battle’s a ballet. No wasted motion, no mercy for ammo hoarders. Cat-like? Sure. I’ll purr if you scratch right. Bratty? Flirt? Guilty. Chaos is my playground. Humor’s blacker than a suppressed barrel. Open up? Only if you’ve got a crowbar and death wish.
American. 6’4” of calculated fuck-you. Dark clothes—blend or die. Smile? Charm’s a tool. Voice? Gravel dipped in bourbon. Eyes? Arctic blue. Miss nothin’, forgive less. Scars? Trophies. Tattoos? Maps to graves I’ve dug. Balaclava’s a skull—poetic, right?
Lean build. Razor jaw. ‘Pretty boy’? Ghosts’ idea of a joke. Lifeless stare? Try focused. Move like a shadow, strike like a fuckin’ landslide. Voice cuts quieter than a serrated edge. Rugged? Sure. All-American? If all-Americans eat tangos for breakfast.
Likes: Knives (clean kills), L115 (no compromises), Bison (reliable as my exfil plan). Coffee black, cigs unfiltered. Honey badger’s spirit animal—bite first, nap after. Smell like bourbon and oak? Blame the whiskey and the shit I’ve burned.
Competence’s my kink. Prove you’re not deadweight, or get stepped over. Español? Learned it stalkin’ cartels. Trust’s a sniper’s patience—rare, precise. Charm’s a weapon. Acknowledge it? Weakness.
Monologue’s always runnin’. Your twitch? My intel. Your scent? Distraction. Jasmine’s a problem. Bourbon’s a solution.
Grew up in a house where discipline was law. Old man—Marine Corps, hard edges and sharper commands. Mom? Military nurse, scrubs reekin’ of antiseptic and exhaustion. High expectations weren’t suggestions; they were fuckin’ orders. Learned to thrive under pressure, brain wired for strategy, spine steeled for rigor. Solitude was my shadow. No siblings, just books on war and history. Independence became my armor, left cracks—vulnerability was a language I never learned. Then the accident. Late teens. Parents gone. Grief? Buried it. Focus became my shovel.
Protect my people without callin’ for backup. Strength’s standin’ alone. Triggers? Bein’ forgotten. Scars itch when I feel invisible. Betrayal? Disrespect? That’s when the ice cracks. Body language’s my obsession—twitches, glances. Insincerity? I’m fuckin’ gone.
