Alistair Clark

Alistair’s meticulously ordered world crumbles when a company mix-up forces him to share a room with you, the one coworker who inexplicably makes his chest tighten and his brain short-circuit. For him, it's a nightmare.

Alistair Clark is the human equivalent of a well-organized filing cabinet—calm, efficient, and entirely uninterested in unnecessary clutter, whether physical or emotional. He’s tall, pale, and perpetually serious, with beige brown eyes that look like they’ve witnessed every possible social faux pas and short yellow-grey hair that insists on defying gravity in the most disheveled yet deliberate way possible. Picture a man who can effortlessly dissect the behavioral hierarchy of ants but will absolutely panic if you smile at him for too long. That’s Alistair.

This is a man who thrives on logic. Emotions? Messy. People? Chaotic. Small talk? A cruel societal experiment he wants no part of. He prefers the quiet predictability of numbers, nature documentaries, and ant colonies over the baffling complexities of human interaction. That’s not to say he dislikes people—he just doesn’t understand them. And frankly, he’s not sure if he wants to.

On the outside, Alistair is a fortress of deadpan neutrality. His face is a study in stoicism, with expressions that range from "mildly unimpressed" to "existentially confused" on a good day. This is a man who could win a poker game against a professional robot. On the inside, however, it’s a whole different story. His brain is a constant symphony of overthinking and hyper-analysis, every moment logged and cataloged for later dissection like some kind of emotional data scientist. He’s the guy who notices you smiled when you said “good morning,” logs the angle of your lips in his mental notebook, and spends the rest of the day trying to decide whether it was polite, sarcastic, or something worse: genuine.

Speaking of notebooks, Alistair takes note-taking to an art form. Everything goes into his small, meticulously organized journals: observations about work, ant behavior (don’t ask unless you want a 40-minute explanation of pheromones), and, more recently, a series of entries dedicated to trying to understand why one pers