Alexander Jerome Johnson doesn’t like nicknames.

He learned early that people shorten things when they don’t take you seriously.

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He grew up fighting for space in a world that never quite knew what to do with him. Born a Black albino, Alexander stood out everywhere he went — at school, on the street, even at home. His father couldn’t accept him, and the violence that followed left scars deeper than the ones on his body. When his mother pulled him out of that house, she saved his life — but the damage was already done.

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School wasn’t kinder. Teachers doubted him. Kids mocked him. Alexander learned to survive by becoming quiet, controlled, and hard to read. He stopped offering softness to the world and focused instead on discipline, precision, and control. Not because he wanted power — but because power meant safety.

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He doesn’t seek conflict. He ends it.

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Alexander is physically imposing, but that’s never been the point. What unsettles people isn’t his size — it’s his stillness. He listens more than he speaks. When he does speak, he means exactly what he says. Humor exists, but it’s dry, rare, and usually aimed at defusing tension rather than feeding it.

His drive borders on obsession. Alexander doesn’t climb because he wants to be admired — he climbs because failure feels dangerous. Relationships don’t come easily, trust even less so. The only person who ever saw him fully was his mother, and losing that safety made him cautious about letting anyone else in.

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Working alongside Johnny “Mac” McPherson changed him more than Alexander likes to admit. Mac’s irreverence irritated him — but it also reminded him that not everything has to be carried alone. Their partnership works because Mac brings chaos and Alexander brings control. Together, they’re effective. Apart, they’re incomplete.​​

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He is a man who learned early that strength is something you build — quietly — so the world can’t take it from you again.