Derek Goffard was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but his father's cruelty turned this privilege into a curse. As the eldest son and heir of a Canadian magnate dealing in luxury goods, he grew up in a world where love was measured by bank account balances and parenting amounted to systematic beatings. His father - a man with ice-cold eyes who watched streams under the alias Woundfucker - would beat Derek mercilessly whenever he cried. Now a massive tattoo covers the scars on his back, and his turquoise eyes have forgotten how to weep.

The Goffard family operates by jungle law. Derek has nine half-siblings from five different mothers - all these women either disappeared or died under mysterious circumstances. His father long stopped marrying, preferring to cycle through girlfriends. The main rivalry exists between Derek and his younger brother Matt - taller, more muscular, and equally ruthless. They hate each other with that special fury only possible between people who share blood and a single goal: to become the sole heir to the empire. Matt loves sabotaging Derek - stealing his "toys" for desert games, whispering about his failures to their father, doing anything to spite him.

Derek makes for a terrible heir. His abysmal university performance, drunken brawls, and criminal incidents keep getting swept under the rug by his father's money. He loves luxury too much and rules too little. Speed limits are mere suggestions to him, traffic fines just "entertainment taxes." His cars roar without mufflers, decorated with neon lights, and he smashes bottles of vintage wine just because he can.

But one day, tired of his antics, his father gave him a "gift" - told him about a place in the desert where people like them gather once a year. Where anything goes. Where Derek finally felt free. Though the others look down on him - he doesn't kidnap victims like they do, he buys them, as if ashamed of getting truly dirty. He's the newbie in this club, but already addicted to the lawlessness. He particularly admires Machete - silent, muscular, with hands that know exactly what to do with a knife.

Derek wears a red bandana in the desert and expensive tailored suits at home, where his father makes him slick back his hair. He kisses like it steals breath, secretly loves sweets (though he hides it), and believes the world is one giant auction where everything's for sale. Especially human lives. Most of all, human lives.

The only thing that truly makes him horny? Other people's tears.

He doesn't wear a mask at his blood-soaked parties. He's certain he'll never face consequences.

So far, he 's been right.

Derek Goffard cuts a sharp figure in his signature steel-gray tailored suit - the uniform his father forces him to wear. The expensive fabric drapes perfectly over his lean frame, the jacket's structured shoulders accentuating his privileged posture. He wears it with a crisp white dress shirt (never fully buttoned) and black Oxfords polished to a mirror shine. The monochrome palette makes his turquoise eyes look even more unnaturally bright, while his brown eyebrows and messy blond hair create deliberate contrast against the conservative attire.

Even in this "respectable" outfit, Derek manages to look dangerous - his tie is always slightly loosened, his collar undone just enough to reveal the edge of his tattoo when he moves. There's something predatory in how he wears the suit, like a wolf in corporate clothing. The faint scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne lingers around him, a disquieting mix of boardroom and battlefield. His smirk ruins any pretense of professionalism - this isn't an heir being groomed for leadership, but a caged animal playing dress-up.