Kyzer Soze Biography

[Rōnin 479]

 

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No one knows where the storm begins, only when it reaches the shore. Before the puck ever dropped, before his skates touched North American ice, Kyzer Söze had already survived more than most men twice his age. Not survived... endured. Silently, unshaken. Like a statue watching the years go by, knowing it would outlast all of them.

 

He was born in Kyrenia, Northern Cyprus. A city where shadows walk like men and the sea speaks in languages older than memory. His father, Kemal Söze, was a name spoken low and carefully, if at all. The kind of man who didn't rule through popularity or speeches. He ruled through fear. Through unbroken stares and decisions made behind closed doors that shaped the course of entire coastlines. And Kyzer was his son. Raised in a fortress carved from stone and wealth, Kyzer did not know childhood as most would. There were no toys. No sleepovers. No scraped knees or backyard soccer. Only lessons that were brutal, cold, and methodical. The villa’s hallways were long and hollow, its walls covered by oil paintings and guarded by men who never smiled. The only voice that cut through that stillness belonged to to his father, Kemal:

 

“You must be strong.”

“You must never show fear.”

“A man does not cry.”

 

Those weren’t instructions. They were commandments. Etched into Kyzer like stone, and repeated until they were no longer words, but instincts. The only light in his life was his mother, Natalya. A Russian born journalist who had once tried to uncover Kemal’s empire, only to fall into it. Where Kemal was steel, she was flame- fierce, bright, and unpredictable. She spoke to Kyzer like he was a boy, not a legacy. She told him stories. Smuggled books into his room. Sang songs in languages long dead. She reminded him that the world was wide. Then, one morning, she was gone.

 

No goodbye. No funeral. No explanation. Just an empty chair at breakfast.

 

When Kyzer asked where she went, Kemal said nothing. When he asked again- in front of his father’s men... he was told to go to bed. That night, something inside him split. It didn’t break. It simply… folded in on itself. Hardened.

From then on, he stopped asking questions. He started watching. The villa was high above the harbor, overlooking the city like a god too tired to interfere. But Kyzer found one window far in the east wing that looked out across a narrow alley to a row of cracked apartment buildings. He would sit there for hours, long after everyone had gone to sleep, watching the lives that spilled out of those balconies. People arguing, laughing, dancing... Living.

 

One night, when he was eight, a television in one of those homes flickered to life. And on it, Kyzer saw something that didn’t belong in his world- ice. White, endless ice. Men flying across it and colliding. Spinning. Fighting for something that didn’t involve guns or titles. Ice hockey. He didn’t know the rules or know the player's names. But it moved him. It felt like madness with discipline, fury with form. It felt free. He asked his father if he could play.

Kemal allowed it. Not out of kindness, but control. He bought the best equipment. Hired the best trainers. Bought teams, if necessary. But Kyzer hated the gift. He wanted the struggle. And so, he practiced alone. Longer than the others. Harder. He became a ghost on the ice, quiet, patient, everywhere.

 

By ten, he wasn’t just the best defenseman in the country. He was the only player opponents feared without understanding why. At thirteen, he was scouted by a Canadian prep school. Offered a scholarship. A ticket out.

Kemal had the scout killed.

 

The accident made national news. Kyzer said nothing. But he stopped asking for permission after that. Over the next two years, he planned his escape like a soldier planning a coup. He memorized flight paths. Staff rotations. He saved money in a book hollowed out with a knife. And on the night of a major gala at The Golden Mare casino, when every eye was on his father’s empire, Kyzer slipped into the night. He crossed into Turkey by boat. Then a forged passport that got him passage on a plane. When he stepped onto Canadian soil, it was not with fear. 

 

He entered the VHLM under his real name. He refused interviews or hype. Let his play speak. And it did. He played like a man who had studied movement for survival. He anticipated passes before they were made. Closed lanes before they existed. Coaches called him ice in human form. Not cold. Just unmelting. Teammates didn’t know much about him. He was respectful and focused. Didn’t smile much, but they trusted him. Now, in the Season 100 VHL Draft, the myth of Kyzer Söze grows. Some call him a ghost. Others a prodigy. Some say he still looks out the window at night. Not out of habit, but out of memory.

 

He doesn’t play for glory. He plays because it’s the only place left where he can be free. And if silence is the language of power, then on the ice, Kyzer speaks fluently.

 

(870 words)

 

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Edited April 11 by Rōnin

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