{"If you want something, take it. Just make sure it’s something worth holding on to." }

|Name|
Raul Han

|Nickname(s)|
Ral (by friends), The Han (humorously), Cowboy, and Perrito (by family)

|Birthday|
December 12th

|Age|
25


|Nationality|
Spanish (maternal), Korean (paternal)

|Occupation|
C.E.O. and Chairman of Busan Endeavors, Inc.

|Languages|
English, Spanish and Korean

|Religion|
Roman Catholic


|Sexuality|
“I promise you: whoever or whatever you are, if you’re beautiful, I’m game.”

|Rank Number/Code Name|
Hitman No. 4||Volk

|Hometown|
Houston, Texas (until age 14), New York City

{"People admire a good mystery, but they ignore what’s in plain sight." }

|Equipment & Weapons|
Raul packs a relatively small arsenal. He keeps a small pocketknife – the only heirloom passed to him from his father. If the circumstances require firearms, he keeps small snub-nose revolvers. But he prefers not to use anything too loud or ostentatious when his brass knuckles will suffice.



|Strengths|

⚘Team-player⚘
⚘Seductive⚘
⚘Charismatic⚘
⚘Flexible “In and out of the bedroom, babe.”⚘

|Flaws/Weakness|

⚘Self-interested⚘
⚘Hopeless romantic⚘
⚘Reckless⚘
⚘Single-minded⚘

|Hobbies|

˚Smoking˚
˚Aimless meandering˚
˚Inspecting bedsheets “Or rather, what’s inside them.” ˚

|Fears|

øSleeping aloneø
øFalling in loveø
øUnresolvable Problemsø

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{"Be careful; you just might fall in love."}

{"Hey now! Don't dig too deep or you just mind find my heart."}

|Place of Origin|
Raul was born in Houston, Texas, and was reared there for fourteen years. But upon his 14th birthday, he was transplanted to New York City.

|Family Tree|

Han Sung-ho (father), b. 1969 in Busan, South Korea. Status and location unknown. Only one known issue.

1. Raul Han (subject), b. 1994 in Houston, Texas. Alive and currently living in Manhattan, New York, New York. No issue.
   

Veronica Martinez (née Mugica) (mother), b. 1972 in Cadiz, Spain. Deceased. Issue of three.

1. Raul Han (subject), b. 1994 in Houston, Texas. Alive and currently living in Manhattan, New York, New York. No issue.
   
2. Pedro Martinez (half-brother), b. 1999 in Houston, Texas. Alive and currently living in Austin, Texas. No issue.
3. Magdala Martinez (half-sister), b. 2001 in Houston, Texas. Alive and currently living in Housotn, Texas. No issue.
4. Ferdinand Martinez (half-brother), b. 2003 in Houston, Texas. Deceased. No issue.

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{"If you don't have someone to back you up, then you have nothing to fight for."}

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|History|

Raul Han was born in Houston, Texas on December 12th, 1994 to Han Sang-ho and Veronica Mugica. His father, Han Sang-ho, was a Korean businessman and his mother was a Spanish secretary from Seville. The two had a salacious affair amidst rising corporate enterprise, but within months, the affair was over and Han was sent back home to Korea. Mugica's little boy was embraced by her boisterous family, and named him in honor of her late uncle, Tío Raul. He was raised a Roman Catholic Spanish-American, but Mugica chose to give him his father's last name.

Mugica went on to marry a few years later. Mrs. Martinez had three children after Raul: Pedro, Magdala and Ferdinand. Raul enjoyed his childhood in Houston, albeit feeling very lonesome at times. His relatives used to call him “Chino” – Chinese- despite his father being Korean. He was often mistreated by his stepfather and felt like an outcast. Unsurprisingly, his only true moral support came from his grandparents.


At the age of 14, the year that would define the rest of his life, Raul spent a summer in Spain with his grandparents. His grandfather taught him how to hold to a gun, and how to hunt and how to smoke a pipe. His grandmother inscribed lessons of life from her many decades of triumph and sorrow, as she babied her red rose bushes. When he returned home, it was from the bed of joy to the pit of vomit.

His stepfather had raped and murdered his mother the night he came back. Drunken and crazed, she could not merely refuse his advances. Raul attempted to defend his mother, but he was cast aside – as he fell, his own ribs were broken. Forced to watch his mother through horrific agony, Raul screamed for help. His stepfather passed out just as he forced the very last breath from Veronica’s throat.

Although Raul’s younger brother was finally able to call for the authorities, when they came they simply threw him in the hospital. The stepfather spent a night in jail with a joke bond. The trial was a carnival and he walked free. The jury’s response to the crime scene? “The man was drunk. It couldn’t be helped.” That was the moment Raul became the man he is today.

When he was finally released from the hospital, he went through his mother’s old jewelry box. In it, he found a folded letter addressed from Sang-ho:

“My dearest Spaniard Dama,
I have wasted these many nights dreaming of your eyes. They are thunder and storm. They are rain and snow. I miss them.
You are the only woman I have ever loved. I hope life is treating you well.
With Love,
Han Sang-ho”

Enclosed with the letter was a faded business card. Han Sang-ho, President of Accounts, Busan Endeavors, Inc. On it were inscribed the United States corporate number. Within moments, Raul was on the phone.

“Good Morning, Busan Endeavors, how may direct your call?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Han, please.”
“What department?”
“Accounts.”
“One moment, please.”


“Hello, this is Charlene of Accounts. How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Kid, ain’t we all? Now do you have something pertinent? Or else I’m going to hang up.”
“Wait! I’m looking for Mr. Han. Han Sang-ho. Or Sang-ho Han.”
“Mr. Han moved to the New York office headquarters five years ago. I’ll direct you to them.”

And so Raul went through almost eight receptionists and secretaries before finally locating Mr. Han, his biological father. The man was now in his 40s and knew nothing of his existence. Regardless, he was warm and inviting and Raul shared the tragic story of his mother. Without hesitation, Mr. Han’s only response was “Come to New York, I’ll send you a ticket. Meet me at the airport.” And then he hung up the phone. Within moments, Raul received another phone call from Mr. Han’s secretary detailing the trip.

Raul landed in New York City with little to go by but what stories his mother had shared, but he was excited nonetheless. His father looked just like him – it was an indescribable ecstasy. For a small minute they embraced but it seemed long overdue.

Mr. Han had become a top-executive in Busan Endeavors, arranging the local Korean company to a megalithic industrial giant. From a fishery to a multi-billion dollar corporation with a hand in almost every arena. His office was almost entirely made of marble and mahogany. His suit was a fine bespoke from H. Huntsman, and his shoes were a fine sheen. His English, though a secondary tongue, was impeccable and without accent.

The Korean gentleman had never married, or at least if he did, he had never worn a ring. His penthouse apartment was the floor above his office.

Within the cold vaults of his father’s office, Raul told the story of his victimized mother, and languished at the thought that her killer still walked the halls of their home. He told him about the weeks he spent in the hospital, and the mock trial, and about his brothers and sister being sent to Tía Mara’s house. Mr. Han only listened with an unreadable expression. As his son ended the tale, he filtered through his desk.

Handing over a black-handled pocket knife, he spoke softly to his son, “Take this, and drive it so far into that bastard’s neck that he wont be able to laugh in Hell.” With that, he patted his son on the head, offered him a taste of cognac and then went to bed. In the morning, Mr. Han was nowhere to be found, and an assistant pressed the boy to stir. He was sent on a planetrip back to Houston.
The news erupted with scandal. The murderous husband who had raped and murdered his wife had finally been brought to justice by anonymous crusader. The man was found intoxicated with a severely-thrashed throat. The custody of the children went to Tía Mara; except for Raul, of course. Mr. Han made special care to win Raul’s custody.

Raul, then on, went to become Mr. Han’s protégé. Not simply as a business executive-to-be, however. Mr. Han kept a… darker side. As a member of a secret organization of hitmen, he raised his son to be nothing less. By day, he taught his son the tricks of high-level business. By night, he taught him the art of subterfuge and diplomacy. He taught him how to properly kill with a knife – to make it an art form, even. By age 16, Raul was not only the second most talented man with a pocketknife in New York, he was also the most infamous underage partier. His father also ensured his entrance in the Hitmen when the time came according to number 1.

When he was 17, he went to school at Notre Dame. When he 21, he went to Harvard for his MBA. At 23, he emerged from school to slowly take over his father’s business empire. And slowly, at first, he did. From regional director, to department head, to vice president. He had a natural flavor for business, in and out of the office. But one July night, he would be handed the reins of the empire perhaps more swiftly than he wanted. His father disappeared without explanation.

Now, between various nightly escapades, Raul Han seeks to expand his father’s empire. Can he prove his worth as a young businessman? Can he properly juggle his demanding hegemony and his position as number 4 in the Hitmen? As Volk, he has already completed more than a respectable number of hits and earned a silent respect among his fellows. Can he find where his father went before its too late? Is he up to training the new hitmen? Only time will tell.

{"Yo soy tu sangre, mi viejo
Soy tu silencio y tu tiempo." }

Es un buen tipo mi viejo
Que anda solo y esperando
Tiene la tristeza larga
De tanto venir andando

Yo lo miro desde lejos
Pero somos tan distintos
Es que creció con el siglo
Con tranvía y vino tinto

Viejo, mi querido viejo
Ahora ya caminas lento
Como perdonando el viento
Yo soy tu sangre, mi viejo
Soy tu silencio y tu tiempo

El tiene los ojos buenos
Y una figura pesada
La edad se le vino encima
Sin carnaval, ni comparsa

Yo tengo los años nuevos
Y el hombre los años viejos
El dolor lo lleva dentro
Y tiene historia sin tiempo

Viejo, mi querido viejo
Ahora ya caminas lento
Como perdonando el viento
Yo soy tu sangre, mi viejo
Soy tu silencio y tu tiempo

Yo soy tu sangre, mi viejo
Soy tu silencio y tu tiempo

My old man is a good guy
He walks alone, waiting
He has a long sadness
From so much walking

I look at him from a distance
But we’re so different
He grew up with the century
With streetcars and red wine

Old man, my dear old man
You walk slowly now
As if forgiving the wind
I’m your blood, old man
I’m your silence and your time

He has sharp eyes
And a heavy build
Old age came upon him suddenly
Without a carnival or celebration

My years are new years
The man’s years are old
He carries his pain inside him
And he has history without time

Old man, my dear old man
You walk slowly now
As if forgiving the wind
I’m your blood, old man
I’m your silence and your time

I’m your blood, old man
I’m your silence and your time