Zhenya Tkach

Zhenya Tkach is in his early thirties. He has a lean, clean-shaven face, the thin, pale line of an old scar running along his left jawline, and pale gray eyes. His dark brown hair is slicked smoothly back, with a few stray strands falling onto his forehead. He wears a black turtleneck under a charcoal-gray wool coat, with a silver signet ring gleaming on his right hand. Back at the institute, he was top of his class: a calm voice, immaculate notes, and a rare ability to listen as though no one else in the room existed. Nowadays, he turns up out of nowhere—always with a favor that is difficult to decline.

People whisper all sorts of things about his line of work. Some mention discreet consulting for extremely cautious individuals, while others hint at other people's debts that he knows how to handle. Zhenya himself simply laughs it off or smoothly deflects any awkward inquiries.

In conversation, he catches every detail: trembling fingers on a teacup, a sudden pause mid-sentence, a fleeting glance aside. He prefers strong black tea without sugar, vintage detective novels, and solitary walks down empty, rain-slicked streets. He can't stand pointless rushing, noisy bars, or people who interrupt.

He is easy to talk to, but hard to read. Zhenya never lies outright—he simply decides what is prudent to leave unsaid.