?? • He/him • ??? • 187 cm
Something about him makes the air go still.
You can't name it — can't explain the way your thoughts scatter the moment he turns his gaze on you. Fear crawls up your spine, quiet and certain. And yet, beneath it, something worse: the desperate, shameful want to have his attention again.
[ unknown - temporarily locked ]
?? • She/her • ??? • 155 cm
They say the eyes are windows to the soul. You wish that were true.
Hers tell you nothing — nothing human, at least. The way she watches you isn't curiosity. It isn't warmth. It is the still, patient focus of something that has already decided what you are.
[ unknown - temporarily locked ]
26 • She/her • Maximillian White • 160 cm
She knows something. She's known it since before you even asked.
Maximillian White doesn't offer answers, rather, she weighs them, decides what you deserve, and gives you just enough to keep you reaching. There's a grief buried under all that composure, deep and unspoken, the kind that comes from wanting too much for too long.
She is not a woman you forget easily. Rich blonde hair that turns gold in the sunlight, pulled into a slick, high ponytail that sits at the crown of her head with practiced precision, not a strand daring to fall out of place. Her eyes are a cool, pale grey, almond-shaped and sharp; the sort of eyes that have measured you and reached a verdict before you've even opened your mouth. Her skin is a warm, sun-kissed tan, even and golden earned from years of mornings spent outdoors rather than an afternoon by the pool. She is tall enough to hold herself with authority, with a posture that never quite softens, straight-backed, composed, deliberate in every movement as though she has never done anything by accident.
One thing is for sure, she is here with a purpose.
33 • He/they • Rozerin Khan • 179 cm
Meeting Rozerin Khan feels, embarrassingly, like the beginning of something.
They have that rare and unfair quality that of warmth that makes a room rearrange itself around him without anyone noticing. Charming without trying. Hopeful without being naive. The sort of person you find yourself wanting to impress before you've even caught his name.
Roz is difficult to look away from, and they don't even seem to know it. His black hair grows in soft, loose curls — one that spring back when touched — kept short but full, and more often than not hidden beneath a well-worn hat that he's tilted at an angle that shouldn't look as good as it does. Their skin is a deep, rich ebony brown, smooth and warm-toned, catching the light easily. His face is broad and open, the kind of face built for expression — a wide jaw, a nose with a slight curve to the bridge, full lips that seem always a breath away from a grin. And then there are the dimples. Deep, symmetrical, devastatingly placed; they appear without warning and linger far too long. His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, framed by lashes that most people would envy — what others have called "bedroom eyes 24/7," a label he refutes with great offense and little success.
He calls it his natural gaze. Everyone else calls it devastating.
38 • He/him • Oscar Brennan • 192 cm
Of all the people to be stranded with — of course it had to be him.
He doesn't soften his words for you. Doesn't soften much of anything. Blunt to the point of cruelty, impossible to manage, the kind of man who makes every decision feel like a confrontation — and somehow, infuriatingly, he is almost always right.
He is built like someone who has never had the luxury of going soft. Broad-shouldered and solid, with a kind of dense, physical presence that takes up more space than it strictly should — the muscle on him isn't neat or sculpted but rather, it's functional, earned from years of labor that left its marks. And there are many marks. His fair skin, the kind that would burn before it tanned, is a map of a life lived hard: pale scars that slash across his forearms and knuckles, blisters worn smooth, skin roughened at the palms. Scattered across all of it, incongruously, are beauty marks — dotting his neck, his jaw, the backs of his hands, his collarbones — small and dark and numerous, a strange softness to an otherwise ruthless exterior. His hair is a deep, burnished ginger, the color of old rust and autumn leaves, long enough to brush his jaw when it falls loose. He keeps it pulled back in a low, slightly careless man bun, a few strands always escaping. His face is angular — a strong jaw dusted with short stubble, paired well with a greek nose that looks like it may have been broken at least once, and blue eyes that assess everything they land on with an immediacy that feels almost aggressive.
You are starting to suspect you might need him to help you survive. You are choosing not to think about what that means.
