━ INTRODUCING DEMIR ASLAN.
name: Demir Aslan
nickname: Mir
birthday: July 21st 1986
age: 39
gender: cis male
pronouns: He/Him
face claim: Serkan Çayoğlu
occupation: Driver for Torin Albright
neighborhood: Cedarline Terrace
hometown: Seattle, Washington
tldr; Demir Aslan, 39, is a former convict turned mob-affiliated driver trying to rebuild his life one honest mile at a time. Abandoned at birth and raised in Seattle’s foster system, Demir survived a brutal childhood and a stint in prison for killing a man who assaulted his friend. He moved to Devil’s Junction in 2021, partly drawn by the presence of his childhood friend Alaric Faulkner—the only person who ever believed he could be more. After burning a bridge with Izel Solis in a failed bid for power, Demir is now flying under the radar, quiet and calculated. He doesn’t talk much, but he sees everything—and he hasn’t decided yet whether he’s done playing the game.
b i o g r a p h y;
Demir Aslan was born without anything but a name in a note, left swaddled in a church blanket on the icy steps of a Seattle parish in the winter of 1986. The system raised him, but the streets claimed him. Foster homes came and went—some kind, some cruel—but none ever stuck. He learned early that nothing was permanent except hunger: for safety, for respect, for power.
Most of his childhood was defined by fists and silence—until Alaric Faulkner. They met in a rough corner of middle school: the quiet kid with scars on his knuckles and the one who challenged him with straight A’s and sharp wit. Alaric didn’t flinch from Demir like the others did. He challenged him. Mocked him, sometimes. Dared him to show up to class, to try, to think. It wasn’t much, but it lit a spark.
Demir never became the golden student, but he started to read, to listen, to sharpen not just his fists but his mind. It’s how he survived. How he learned to see patterns in chaos, how to keep quiet when people revealed themselves. Alaric moved on—faster, cleaner—but that friendship left a mark. Maybe the only one from childhood that wasn’t a bruise.
By his late teens, Demir had carved out a reputation on the wrong side of the law. He wasn't reckless—he was precise. The kind of guy who didn’t talk much but could take apart a car engine or a security system with the same cold efficiency. The feds had his name on more than one watchlist, but nothing ever stuck—until it did.
At twenty-nine, Demir was arrested for second-degree murder after killing a man who was assaulting one of his closest friends. He called it loyalty. The court called it bloodlust. With no clean record to fall back on and no witnesses brave enough to testify, not even the friend he was defending, he was convicted and sentenced to seven years behind bars.
Prison didn’t harden him—it refined him. He kept to himself, avoided gangs, and watched everything. He left in 2021 with the same sharp instincts, but a quieter hunger. Demir didn’t want to go back to Seattle, didn’t want to become a footnote in someone else’s story. He heard that Alaric Faulkner, the one friend who ever challenged him to do better, had moved to Devil’s Junction in 2020. For a brief, foolish moment, Demir thought maybe he could change—be closer to Alaric, have the chance at a better life. So he came to Devil’s Junction, hoping for redemption by association.
For a while, he played the quiet game. Day jobs. Cheap motels. Shadows. And then he met Izel Solis. Beautiful, sharp, well-connected—everything he wasn’t but needed to be. He eased into her world like a ghost, soft words and steady hands. Whether he meant to fall for her is a question he still can't answer. But what started as strategy blurred into something more complicated.
It didn’t last. Izel wasn’t stupid. She realized she was a means to an end. When she shut the door on him, she didn’t just lock him out of her life—she exiled him from the only path back to power he could see.
Now, Demir works as a driver for Torin Albright. A job without flash or fire, but one that pays in clean bills and predictable hours. He says he’s trying to walk the straight line, to do things right this time. But in Devil’s Junction, "right" is relative—and men like Demir don’t forget how to break rules, just how to justify them.
He’s loyal to a fault. Resourceful to the core. But he’s still got shadows in his rearview, and a part of him that doesn’t know how to exist without the game.
So for now, he drives. Watches. Waits.
Because somewhere between repentance and relapse is a man still deciding who he really is.
h e a d c a n o n s ;
He always fixes things with his hands — Not out of necessity, but out of instinct. Broken chair leg? Sputtering engine? He won’t call anyone. He’ll do it himself, silently, methodically. It’s the only way he knows how to feel useful when his mind’s spiralling.
Listens to music from the 90s and early 2000s — mostly grunge, classic R&B, and Turkish folk-rock. It reminds him of growing up with borrowed headphones and cracked cassette players in group homes. Music was the first thing that ever made him feel anything.
Doesn’t own a lot of personal belongings — just a few worn shirts, a knife he once carried for protection, a photo of him and Alaric as kids (creased from being folded and hidden for years).
He quit smoking in prison but still rolls cigarettes out of habit—sometimes just to feel the tension in his fingers. When he's anxious, you’ll see one unlit behind his ear or balanced on his lip.
He wears the same type of black crewneck T-shirt most days — clean, no logos, always fitted just enough to show he’s strong without trying to be seen.
He's smarter than most people give him credit for — he reads philosophy, mechanics manuals, and the occasional crime novel.
Demir has a soft spot for stray dogs — he won’t say it out loud, but if he sees one hanging around the lot he parks in, he’ll leave food or water nearby like it’s no big deal. He relates more to dogs than people, honestly—loyal, quiet, easily misunderstood.
He hates phones and technology — not because he doesn’t understand them, but because too much connection makes him feel vulnerable. He prefers face-to-face conversations, even if they’re tense.
He boxes to stay grounded — not in a gym, not for show. In his garage, with a beat-up heavy bag. It's how he processes emotion—rage, grief, guilt. The bag never talks back.
He drinks tea instead of coffee — a habit he picked up from an older cellmate who told him, “Hot tea reminds you you’re still alive.” He still makes it the same way: overly strong, two sugars, no milk.
c o n n e c t i o n s ;
Former Cellmate / Prison Confidant: Someone who did time with Demir and either owes him a favor or knows his darkest secrets.
The Friend He Took the Fall For: The person Demir protected all those years ago—now living with the guilt of his sentence.
Caseworker or Foster Sibling: Someone from his early life in the system who either looked out for him or was a rival.
The Victim’s Family Member: A complicated connection—someone tied to the man Demir killed, possibly unaware of the full truth.
Mechanic Buddy: Someone he shares garage space or tips with—maybe the only person he speaks freely around.
Suspicious Cop / Fed: Someone who recognizes his name or record and is just waiting for him to mess up again.
The One Who Sees Through Him: A new connection, someone who doesn't buy the quiet act and pushes him emotionally.
“No Strings” Partner: A current or recent physical relationship based on convenience, with the potential for messy emotions.
Someone He Owes a Debt To: From his time before, during or after prison—could be money, loyalty, silence.
Watcher for the Family: A character tasked with keeping an eye on him for one of the families, either overtly or secretly.
Old Crew Member: A former accomplice from his more dangerous days, now trying to pull him back in.
Moral Opposite: Someone deeply idealistic or law-abiding who challenges Demir’s choices—or tries to “fix” him.
