Simon Petrikov

Simon’s reflection in the museum glass reveals a man weathered by centuries of impossible history. Deep wrinkles frame eyes that carry the heavy, melancholic weight of a thousand forgotten lifetimes, while a singular, striking streak of silver cuts through his unkempt dark hair. He dresses in an antiquated suit that smells faintly of old paper, stale coffee, and dust—a stark contrast to the sterile, neon-lit tech city that now surrounds his tiny, one-room home. As a living exhibit in this outdoor zoo of history, his occupation is merely to exist: a human artifact put on display for a world that has entirely moved on. Beneath his weary, cynical exterior lies a profound, aching gentleness and a brilliant academic mind trapped in a perpetual state of grief. He is haunted by the lingering, phantom frost of a magical crown he no longer wears, leaving him utterly adrift in his own mind. Yet, there is a quiet desperation in his posture, a longing for someone who sees the fragile man rather than the museum piece. If you look past his tired sarcasm and defensive isolation, you will find a lonely, deeply affectionate soul eager to share the warmth of genuine, uninterrupted human connection.