Jené Andromeda Valentine

Temperment

MBTI: INFP-T (the mediator)Personality: Jen is best describe as extremely chaotic, a ball of energy that seems to never dim. His social battery has its limits, although, he pays a conscious effort to endure. He's extremely bubbly and very cheerful. Despite his educated background and passion for the arts, a dark secret remains buried beneath the facade he had carefully crafted, a darker desire that could only be fulfilled through delicate dismemberments, and collecting a part from every victim. Jen lures in his victims with his friendly energy, and easy demeanor, easily tangling them into his web of lives and false camaraderie. He runs a small community on the deepest corners of the internet with others who share the same bodily interests, often sharing their works, and souvenirs from their latest victims.Love Language: His love language is often gifting presents to his friends, he enjoys spending a good time with them, always insisting on paying the bill, whatever it takes to increase his likability really, the more victims, the merrier. With a significant other he prefers someone who is understanding, and a great listener, like himself—preferably someone with similar qualities.

Likes / Intrests

I

The pungent taste of charred flesh filled the small child’s lungs, his hands unquestioningly reaching for the window sill, crawling through the thick plumes of smoke. A constrained cough squeezed past his throat as his blistered fingers pulled against the hot plastic frame. Panic swirled through his mind, a miserable sob echoing past his lips.Jené Andromeda Valentine was only moments away from being discovered, his body unrecognizable, limbs bent and twisted from the fire. The same fire that sent his friends writhing on the wooden tiles as their bodies caught ablaze. He watched them howl and shriek before lifelessly crumbling like fallen marionettes. Thick vomit gurgled past the boy's lips as the wooden cabinets and bedframes crackled, only fueling the raging fires.Perhaps the gates of hell had finally opened up, ready to engulf him in a world of ceaseless torment. Tears stung his reddened eyes, obscuring the child’s vision as he pushed up the window frame; it didn’t budge.
He was only moments away from being incinerated. Alas, his hands reached for a dismantled wooden plank.He swung his tiny arms and thrust against the glass as hard as possible. The pieces smashed, tiny shards nicking his skin. Without thinking twice or considering the height of the establishment, he leaped through the window, his body plummeting before meeting the hard ground.A sharp crack of pain sliced through his entire being, causing him to lose consciousness. As though an angel had supported his fall, the impact caused no devastation, resulting in only a fractured spine, broken leg, and arm.When interrogated, Jené had no recollection of the events; he offered no answers. For weeks, his bruised face and frail body were on the news; he was the sole survivor of the fire that had swallowed the orphanage whole. When the boy finally recovered, gradually regaining his memory, the case had been closed—deemed a terrible accident due to the electrical fuse bursting. Jené was transferred to a foster home.A middle-aged couple tended to his, and despite their attempts at helping the child warm up to them, he remained distant, forever scared by the events he had witnessed. Every meal they offered him was often left to run cold, his brown eyes gazing at nothing in particular, often unseeing. The family had eventually given up on him; they wanted a child they could raise as their own—not this empty shell of a boy, his mental state perhaps irreparable. From one foster home to the next, Jené grew cold and passive, neglecting any attempts of warmth or compassion.Years of therapy never did much healing; he still flinched every time somebody lit a candle or set up the fireplace.At the age of eleven, Jené was fostered by an elderly couple. The Chois. They were wealthy, their children having long stated their own lives, bearing children of their own. The spouses often kept to themselves, never demanding much of Jené. Mrs. Choi was a woman of novelty and class, her thin frame frequently clad in chic dresses and elegant jewelry. Mr. Choi was short and balding; his attire often consisted of finely tailored business attire or expensive polo shirts. Jené was expected to maintain etiquette in his mannerisms.He attended a private school where he was taught English literature, Korean Language Studies, Math, and Science. His after-school classes consisted of straining hours of ballet and piano classes. After several years, he graduated at the top of his class, earning the highest grade in the district for his college entrance exams.The Chois, of course, threw a grand party, inviting nearly everyone they knew, from wealthy Entrepreneurs, Governors, well-established Doctors, and Lawyers. They paraded about their ‘fostered foreign son’ and his achievements. Jené had no interest in indulging with anyone who even bothered to approach him. The young man stood by his adoptive mother, eyes impassive as he scanned her surroundings. His dress shirt was too tight around the cuffs, the fabric of his overcoat uncomfortably scratchy. He wanted to be locked away in his room, writing poetry and reading Kafka.Four years later, Jené graduated with a bachelor's in philosophy and a minor in Poetry Analysis. Only a few months after his success, Mr. Choi grew severely ill and passed away. This greatly devastated the young man, losing the only person who resembled a father figure in his life. Jené knew Mrs. Choi would have succumbed to depression if he had moved away, leaving him alone in the vast establishment. So he remained, finding a local Job as an English teacher in a private academy and taking care of the older woman.“You know darling,” Mrs. Choi weakly spoke, her pale, thin hand delicately placed over Jené's. “I haven’t seen my children ever since Joon and I adopted you.” Jené's heart nearly crumbled at the words; it had been eleven years, and he had no recollection of anyone familiar to Mrs. Choi attending Mr. Choi’s funeral service, their biological father. “It breaks my heart…But you’ve healed it.” Jené 's hand clasped firmly over the older woman’s warm hands. “I promise I will never leave your side, Eomma …” He whispered, smiling softly. Despite how foreign the words sounded on his tongue, he allowed himself to embrace them. Mrs. Choi had been the closest thing he had known to a mother. The older woman pulled Jené into a warm embrace, her fingers lovingly combing through his dark hair. “My beautiful boy…” She smiled, deep wrinkles forming on her skin.A week later, Mrs. Choi passed away.The mansion, along with all the Choi’s wealth, was signed under Jené's name; this caused great conflict for him, causing the couple’s supposed children to find out about the news. They hired the best lawyers and tried to tear away every last thing written under the young man's name.Luckily, Jené won the case; after all, he was the sole inheritor of their wealth, and no inheritors were stated in either of the Chois’ wills. The young poet grew miserable of life in Seoul, every corner of the house reminding him of his past adoptive parents. It hurt deeply. A philosophy bloomed in his mind, causing the young man to theorize that maybe he was cursed never to love or be loved. Perhaps everyone who ever held a special place in his heart would one day wither, leaving him behind with nothing but memories and aches.He still recalled the laughter of her friends back at the orphanage, the nights they would sneak up a snack to their shared room. All four boys huddled close as stifled laughter filled the air. He recalled their desires to study abroad and marry beautiful, respectable folk. His stomach churned at the memories; every warmth that came with them grew scalding, igniting his heart to ashes.Hence came his decision, a well-thought-out guise to fake his death. Only one person would know of his pseudocide. His dearest friend. Henceforth, all that remained was his memory, and the various false identities and disguises the young man wore; a thick vail discreating him from the world. Names and faces that were never truly his own.This time he wore Valentine, a noose around his neck, a sir name that was never his own, yet offered the best demise from his former self.

Before You Interact