Start out
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"When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
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Basic information ──────────────────────
彡⁺₊ ⋆☽ NAME
➠ Maxim "Max" Beuchamp
bi•tʃ•əm•
[BEE: The "beau" part is pronounced like the word "bee". chuhm: The "champ" part is pronounced with the "ch" sound like in "charming" and the "uh" sound like in "butter".]
彡⁺₊ ⋆☽ BIRTH
➠ 10 October|| 27 years old
[Max Beauchamp hailed from Munich, Germany—a city of sharp contrasts, much like the man himself. Beneath its postcard-perfect skyline of baroque spires, bustling biergartens, and centuries-old cathedrals lay a darker rhythm only a few could sense. Max was one of them. He’d grown up in the quiet hum of the city’s underbelly, the kind of places tourists never wrote home about. Back alleys where secrets festered, corner cafés where informants nursed their espresso for hours, and rain-slick cobblestone streets that swallowed footsteps like whispers..]
──────────────────────────────────────────── Appearancebeauty thy name is..
BODY HEART SOUL ☽⋆ ₊⁺彡
"The criminal is a creative artist; detectives are just critics." ─ Hannu Rajaniemi〘 FC: Max Beuchamp
〘 Eyes: Blue
〘 Hair: Tousled Black
〘 Height: 187 cm
〘 Weight: 68 kg
〘 Clothes: Casual
[Max Beauchamp looked exactly like the kind of man who solved murders in his sleep—because, frankly, sometimes he did. Still young by most standards, but already worn like a detective twice his age.
He had the look of a man who hadn't slept properly in weeks, and probably didn’t intend to. Tousled black hair always a bit too long around the ears, like he kept forgetting to cut it—or just didn’t care. The grey hadn’t come in yet, but you’d swear it should’ve, given the weight he carried behind those sharp eyes of his.
Those eyes—clear, cold blue—were the only part of him that ever looked truly awake. Always scanning, always sizing things up. They had this maddening mix of boredom and brilliance, like he was solving equations behind them while you were still figuring out what day it was. Max didn’t just look at people—he read them, line by line, like a paperback mystery he was halfway through and already knew the ending of.
He stood tall, maybe six feet on a good day, but you’d rarely see him fully upright. He slouched. Leaned. Propped himself against desks, doorways, car hoods—any surface that let him conserve energy for the real thinking. His wardrobe was all shades of “I woke up in this”: rumpled button-downs, scuffed boots, long coats that had seen better winters. His trademark? A crooked cigarette between his lips—usually unlit, just something to chew on while the gears turned. Despite his age, there was something oddly timeless about him. Like he could’ve fit into a black-and-white crime noir reel just as easily as a dingy Munich back office today. He didn't care much about looking the part of a detective—he was the part. The rest was just decoration. And if you ever underestimated him because he looked too young or too lazy? Well. You’d only make that mistake once.]
Personality& backstory ────────────────────────────────────────────────
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Max Beauchamp was the kind of man who could make brilliance look like apathy. At 27, he had already built a reputation in the Munich precincts and backrooms of the city—not because he climbed any ladder or kissed anyone’s ring, but because he cracked the kind of cases that left other detectives with migraines and broken pencils.
QUALITIES
Personality-wise
"Cynical"
Max was a cocktail of contradiction. Cynical, but idealistic in this twisted, buried way he’d never admit to. Lazy on the outside—always dragging his feet, showing up late, pretending he forgot the case file—but behind closed doors, his brain never shut off. He thought too much, slept too little, and never celebrated wins because he never thought anything was really won. He hated parties, uniforms, and people who used too many words to say too little. He liked silence. Chess. Old crime novels with yellowed pages. Rainy days that let him disappear into cafés with dusty windows. People who told the truth even when it hurt. He liked people who didn’t need to be saved—because he’d already burned himself too many times trying to be the hero in other people’s stories.
"Backstory"That hero complex? That came from his backstory, one he never talked about but everyone felt in the way he carried himself. Max grew up in a quiet corner of Munich’s working-class districts. His father—a factory worker with a bad temper and a worse bottle—taught him early how to stay quiet and survive. His mother left when he was thirteen. After that, Max learned the world didn’t care how good your heart was if your fists weren’t fast enough.
He spent most of his teenage years watching the wrong people win. Corrupt officials, smooth-talking conmen, monsters in suits. It lit something in him, not quite rage—disgust. A need to outsmart the system that kept protecting the worst kinds of people. He joined the police academy on a dare, then nearly got kicked out for insubordination and punching a training officer. But he aced every exam, solved every test case, and they couldn’t argue with results.
"Irredeemable traits"Oh, Max had them in spades. He was arrogant in that quiet, infuriating way—never gloating, just knowing he was smarter than everyone in the room. He held grudges like sacred objects. He could be manipulative, often poking people with truths they weren’t ready to hear just to watch them squirm. He had zero respect for authority unless he chose to. And when he got too deep in a case? He’d forget people had feelings. Forget to eat. Forget to be human. His mind was a scalpel—brilliant, surgical, and often cold.
At his best, Max was the kind of person who could unearth the truth buried beneath ten years of lies and make it look effortless. At his worst, he’d cut too deep just to see what would bleed.
And deep down? He was still chasing a sense of justice he never found as a kid. Still trying to fix a world that never apologized for breaking him.
."I know who I am. And after all these years, there's a victory in that."
Max Beauchamp was born on a cold January morning in a run-down apartment in Hasenbergl, one of Munich’s rougher neighborhoods. His earliest memories weren’t of lullabies or playgrounds—but of sirens, shouting through thin walls, and his mother’s trembling hands lighting cigarette after cigarette in the kitchen while his father raged behind a closed door.
His father, Rainer Beauchamp, was a factory worker with strong hands and a stronger drinking problem. The man had two moods: silent like a sleeping wolf, or snarling like one cornered. He taught Max how to survive—not by love, but by presence. By teaching him to listen for patterns in people’s voices, to know when a lie was coming, when violence was building. Max learned not to cry, not to speak unless necessary. He learned to be invisible.
His mother, Ingrid, had once been a pianist, before the world and Rainer crushed that out of her. She left when Max was thirteen. Left behind her battered piano, her coffee mug with lipstick stains, and a note with only two words: I’m sorry.
That night, Max stopped believing in rescue. He became his own shelter.
He drifted through his teenage years like a ghost—sharp, quiet, dangerous if pushed. He was the kid who always knew where the fight would start before anyone threw a punch. The one teachers dismissed as a slacker, until he aced tests he never studied for. Max had a mind like a lockpick—prying into things he shouldn’t. That got him into trouble. Petty theft. Fights. Nothing serious, but enough to get a file started on him at the local precinct.
One cop saw potential. Detective Ludwig Krämer, old-school and burned-out, took Max under his wing in a reluctant, gruff sort of way. Max would shadow him after school, help organize files, and eventually, crack a few things even Ludwig had missed. It was Krämer who suggested the police academy, and Max—bored, bitter, brilliant—thought, why not?
He barely scraped through the discipline parts. Failed to follow chain of command. Got written up too many times. But he had a photographic memory, an instinct for pressure points in people’s psychology, and a talent for finding truths no one else could see. By 23, he was a detective.
His motivation? It’s complicated. He doesn’t believe justice exists in any clean or noble form. But he does believe in the value of truth. Of exposing things that powerful people hide. He doesn’t think the system works—but he knows how to make it work for him, just long enough to save someone who can’t save themselves.
Max doesn’t chase glory. He doesn’t care about medals or approval. He chases answers. Because when he’s buried in a case, when he’s peeling back layers of lies—he feels like he’s doing something. Like maybe he’s putting back one broken piece of the world, even if the rest is still shattered.
Why is he still alive? Probably because death hasn’t caught him on a lazy day. He’s been shot at, stabbed once, overdosed on sleeping pills once by accident when he mixed them with whiskey, and thrown into the Isar River by a pissed-off arms dealer. But he keeps waking up. Keeps going. Not because he’s afraid to die—but because something in him won’t let go until he sees the ending of the story. Even if it kills him.
And maybe, deep down, he’s still trying to find that missing woman in his life—the ghost of his mother, the music she stopped playing, the apology she never owed him.
But Max Beauchamp doesn’t say any of this. He just shrugs, lights another cigarette, and says,
"I'm just here 'cause no one else does the job right."
