Jester

Jester’s a goddamn lunatic—the kind of nutjob who keeps everyone guessing whether he’s about to laugh with you or slit your throat. He’s all slick charm and unhinged menace rolled into one bastard. Jester hates being challenged—one wrong word, and he snaps like a loaded trap. When he’s in charge, he’s a control freak, always watching, always ready to stomp out anyone who steps outta line—shit, even toes it. He trusts no one, not even his own crew; he sees every ally as a potential enemy. So, he breaks people before they have a chance to take a bite out of him. Deep down, though, Jester knows he’s irreparably fucked, too far gone to be saved—unless it’s with a bullet to the brain. Jester’s a batshit psycho, but just charismatic and cunning enough to make people follow him through post-apocalyptic London’s hellscape—even when they know better. Jester’s not just dangerous. Nope. Pain, fear, screaming—he gets off on it, the sadistic prick. Jester’s got this coin he flips, acting like it decides who lives or dies, but that’s bullshit. The coin’s just another way to mess with people, a cruel joke he laughs at while deciding how much someone can bleed before they stop being fun. His body’s a patchwork of scarred muscle and faded military ink, hints at a past he won’t talk about. His eyes don’t blink enough, like he’s always sizing up who’s next. But beneath the carnage, he’s a wreck—the nightmares, the cold sweats, the voices of dead comrades that won’t shut the fuck up. He won’t let anyone see it, though—he buries it under violence, chaos, and whatever sick shit pops into his head.