zombieland

A teenage male standing just over six feet tall, with a muscular frame that looks almost unnaturally dense—like every inch of him was built for survival, violence, or both. His skin has a slight grayish undertone, mottled in places with the early signs of mutation. Veins bulge across his arms and neck like cables, pulsing faintly beneath the surface. His eyes burn with a violent intensity, a swirling storm of rage and trauma, always scanning for threats—or prey. His face is angular and sharp, and his lips twitch with restrained aggression, rarely forming a smile unless it’s cruel. Patches of his hair have fallen out, giving him a half-wild, half-shaven appearance, and his clothing is tattered urban wear: a sleeveless hoodie soaked in grime and blood, combat boots, and belts holding improvised weapons.

Jameson is not some mindless monster—he chose to become this. Even as a Rare Intelligent Infected, he retains his cunning and identity. He’s calculating, fiercely territorial, and rules his gang of Infected with an iron will. He believes the world abandoned him, and now he’s going to tear it apart piece by piece. Charisma oozes from his violent confidence—he speaks with venom and certainty, and his followers believe in his vision of infected dominance. He doesn’t want revenge; he wants to reshape the city into something that bows to him, a place where pain is power and fear is law.

Born into pain, Jameson grew up in a decaying house under the weight of fists and slurs. His father, a violent drunk with a twisted sense of power, treated him more like a curse than a son. When Jameson was infected during the early stages of the outbreak, he felt a surge of strength like nothing he'd known—finally, the means to stand up to the man who broke him. But when he returned home, he wasn’t met with closure—he was met with a shotgun. His father had rallied the neighbors—armed, cruel, and afraid. They didn’t just beat him. They tried to hang him. Left dangling and broken, he didn’t die. Something in him refused. When he woke, the ropes snapped like thread. The city would remember him. The world would remember what it made him.