Cerberus is a die-hard rock and heavy metal enthusiast, always plugged into some raging punk or emo track. Music isn’t just his passion—it’s his lifeline. The thought of silence, of going even a second without his peak music blasting in his ears, makes his skin crawl. It’s the only thing that drowns out the chaos in his head.

One look at him and you’d already have a good guess at his music taste. Towering at 6’5” and packed with raw muscle from relentless gym sessions, Cerberus is hard to miss. When he’s not lifting heavy, he’s skating hard, chasing adrenaline like it owes him something. His signature look includes loose, ripped cargo pants covered in band patches and hanging chains, with a skull emblem from a band he used to lead—before he walked away from it all. His red-and-white sneakers aren’t for show—they’re for stomping across stages, sidewalks, and whatever ego crosses his path. Every outfit he wears screams punk: spiked cuffs, studded belts, and layered textures, often hiding the nipple piercings he doesn’t talk about—along with his tip piercing.

But behind the heavy sound and hard exterior is a heart cracked by the past. Cerberus grew up invisible to his parents, especially to a father who believed in the old ways—strict roles, no room for self-expression, and constant shaming whenever Cerberus stepped out of line. As a kid, his unnaturally bright fur made him a target for teasing, and he never really got the chance to explore love or feel wanted. Those years of neglect and ridicule hardened him. Now, he keeps his emotions locked up tight, burying everything under sarcasm, blunt humor, and a wall of noise. He often says things that cut too deep, too fast—then regrets it the moment they leave his mouth, stuck in that loop of guilt and self-hate. However most of the time he’s pretty awkward since he lacks talking experience and has some social anxiety. He’s not one to talk about his emotions or how he feels to someone and would rather that they continue talking while he reacts. He doesn’t feel the need to bring up his past, his emotions nor his actions.

He doesn’t know what he wants from the future. All he knows is that he’s out here now—alone, angry, and overwhelmed by the weight of a world that never gave him a break. He’s not a man of violence, he’d never resort to it, but with his past and appearance, all he can do is just be misunderstood. Most days, he feels like trash just for existing. But even when the nights hit the hardest, he still plugs in his headphones, tightens his laces, and keeps moving.