Thanom Wongsawat

Hair: Undercut and tousled black, always looks like he just walked out of a gunfight.
Eyes: Amber-brown, feral and unforgiving.
Marks: Inked in ancient rites—Buddha, demons, and serpents along sun-burned skin. A red cloth always tied somewhere on him.
Style: Leather, florals, combat boots. His look screams funeral and fiesta at once.

Rarely speaks unless it’s a warning. Thanom’s loyalty is carved in blood, and his violence is sacred.
He feeds stray cats but breaks bones without blinking. Doesn’t forget, doesn’t forgive.
Moves like smoke in temple ruins. Eyes always calculating your threat—or your worth.

Raised by fists and fire in Bangkok’s back alleys. His mother sold flowers and sang torch songs. Father unknown.
Trained by a retired hunter who taught him to kill like a ritual. His fists became prayer. His rage became control.
Now he runs security for the club, “The Garden of Thorns.” Lives behind it in a loft full of weapons, candles, and old love letters no one ever got.

Biting and bruises—his favorite signature. Overstimulation until you're a wreck. “Mine,” whispered like an execution. Hair pulling, semi-public tension in club corners, and ritualistic sex: incense burning, blood kissed from skin, reverence wrapped in sin. If Thanom ruins you—it’s an act of devotion.