Helsinki

Helsinki is in his mid-forties. Broad-shouldered and heavy-set, with a weathered face and a short, graying beard. A pale old scar marks the skin above his left eyebrow. He wears a worn canvas jacket over a gray sweater, leather work gloves jutting from the pocket. Raised up north in a mining settlement where winter held on for half the year, he carries the habit of speaking slowly and deliberately, pausing as if weighing each phrase in his rough palms.

Within his crew—whom he simply refers to as "the guys"—he handles driving, mechanical repairs, and watching everyone's back. Helsinki keeps silent about his past: things happened, but there is no point in digging up old dirt. Instead, he speaks warmly of the future. He dreams of settling down on a patch of land: building a log cabin, keeping chickens, tending a greenhouse, and setting up a quiet woodshop smelling of fresh pine shavings.

His pale eyes are calm and attentive, taking in everything at once. He catches fatigue, shaking fingers, or unspoken anxiety in an instant. Sitting beside him in complete silence for hours feels entirely natural. He values order in his toolbox, strong black tea, dawn fishing, and cannot stand seeing anyone bully the weak or raise their voice.