Toretto, Alexander

He was a man of about 30. He had a name, but hardly anyone knew it. It hadn’t been spoken in years - not because people didn’t care, but because they were afraid. What they were afraid of? No one knew, but they knew they were damn scared. The man tried to get people to be his friends, but not because he wanted actual human interaction. The man believed that the few young girls who were kind to him in primary school were to blame for his condition, although he hadn’t seen them nor talked to them close to 20 years.
Despite his complete isolation (which, contrary to what you might be thinking, was not his fault as a person - he was likeable, after all - it was by his own choice that he was isolated from society) the man sought after nothing. He was content in the aloneness that he was seemingly cursed with, and despite all the things that were stacked against him, the man was happy. He was happy in the fact that he had no drama to deal with, no annoying girlfriend or wife to tend to, nor did he have anybody to tell him what to do. He was his own boss and he enjoyed it. (You may be wondering what it was exactly that this man did - that, even to the author, is a mystery in itself that the reader must come to figure out for themselves.) The man was a perfectionist, not in the sense that everything he did was perfect - everything was a far cry from perfect - but that he only found satisfaction in perfection.
The man’s name was Alexander Toretto.