hello, hello! it’s me, back again after a hiatus, and i’m ready to kick things up with iseul again. as i’ve lost plots with him, i’d like to restart him, and therefore, all threads will be rendered void to salvage his muse. if you’d like to keep our old plots, or create a brand new ones, please give this post a like and i’ll come to you via tumblr im. as for what happened with the event, these were what went down with iseul:
he came to watch the fight, and might have ended up doing... things, with a person ( or two ) — to be plotted if anyone wants to snatch this, and can be anything. he attended long enough for his turn to fight. he won the first rounds of his fight, and was waiting around idly for the next one. and he decided to bail at last minute.
he left just before the entire scheme pulled by the cobras and law enforcements happened. yes, he was saved by his exams because he needed to study for them... cliché, but a pre-medical student needed to do what he needed to do. more about the events can be plotted as past occurrences.
the knowledge of the cobras isn’t truly bothering him, since his loyalty to the gang is almost naught. he’s just there for the adrenaline. there are some other factors undisclosed to everyone as to why he remains with kings that long, and that’s for him to keep secrets of.
her mind was c l o u d e d thanks to the amount of liquor she had consumed ( and continued to consume ). there was a point where she would s t o p and b r e a t h e air that wasn’t tainted with sweat and desperation. her body, however, had different plans which included skipping j u d g e m e n t and numbing herself to the night’s events.
taehee normally wasn’t u p s e t whenever she consumed the vile liquid. quite the opposite effect took place. she was the life of the party, the light in a dark room that would get her company l a u g h i n g before the night was over. however, there was always one night and unfortunately for the people around her, that night happened to come.
her head lay between her palms, covering her rosy cheeks. she had lost c o u n t of the number of glasses the bartender had retrieved, lost count of the amount of money she had spent trying to fill up the h o l e that just wouldn’t close no matter how much alcohol she consumed. a part of her was hoping the bartender would cut her off for the night but as long as she kept providing the g r e e n, they kept serving.
“i swear is it just me or does the time seem to fly?” she slurred as she moved her head lazily to face the person closest to her. “it feels like every year goes by faster than the next and I’m stuck missing out. why do i feel like that?”
the night seems to crawl; hours and hours that he should’ve spent in the confines of a library learning the medical jargons with some kind of flashcards are instead squandered in this hall filled with sweat and substance. it’s not like he has to do the former to measure his wit — he’s gone past that stage, cramming seemingly the only method effective enough to ensure his straight a’s. the fights are, however, another brand of ennui in a broken flask, so he goes past the surge of the throng towards the bar, where he’s seated next to a woman too familiar. he doesn’t talk to her at first, letting the initial contact be the perusal of her downing her misery away. soft melancholy is a shade worn too well on her countenance.
weird, she hasn’t seemed like the sad drunk type, but then again plenty of people have become uncharacteristic under the influence, himself included. although in his case, his sadness is rather... blanked, emptied. there’s no static sorrow for someone who doesn’t feel much. and when she starts talking after he downs a glass, it etches a smirk on his lips. after all, misery loves company, and she’s of no exception, inebriated to the point where she wishes to share her pain with someone else. ❛ it sure does fly, noona, ❜ he returns as he slides a few more bills towards the bartender in exchange for more drinks for the both of them. ❛ it’s common to feel that. perhaps because the older we are, the more we feel stuck in our bodies. isn’t it so? ❜
he’s the teeth at the end of the night, aching for a good fight to carve his mark into. there’s none, however, for he’s not scheduled for the championship this round, ruefully perusing the match that goes down in the ring without batting an eye at the gore. blood spill is another name for the consistencies that he’s learned to live through, knowing that without it, everything will taste dull on the tip of his tongue. this event is... dubitable at best, held by a man previously mouthing filth about the gangs. suspicions arise, inevitably, but it isn’t like iseul to question anyone in regards to affiliations. he doesn’t know, doesn’t care. kings is only good for him when they provide him what he needs: the bout of violence, and everything in-between. the cheap thrills. he understands naught of the rivalry.
the fight is bland, however — men that do not know how to perform an uppercut correctly, hitting at all the whimsical spots without calculating anything. the impacts are far from lethal, skittish around the regulations that bind them. he refrains from molding his expression into an emotion, but he’s displeased. leaves the crowd after a while. he meanders his way across the talking bodies towards the bar, close to where the dancers and escorts are. it’s another night colored with humdrum, he thinks, until he sees a familiar face. he doesn’t rush through it, though, simply taking two shots of bourbon to warm himself a bit. when the other man is on the move, alone, he places the money bills on the bartop before chasing after the man surreptitiously. he cuts the man’s path midway. ❛ you’re here, too, ❜ he remarks casually, shoving his hands into his jeans’ pockets.
It’s a gray cloud that hangs over him despite the fact everyone else seems to be having the times of their lives ; dancing and grinding and laughing and chatting like they’re on top of the world , it’s not infectious and if he wasn’t so intent on moping ( it’s what he does when things don’t go his way , he mopes and he complains and he sulks and then he denies that he’s doing it ) , he’d rain on their parade as well. It doesn’t surprise him when Iseul doesn’t even consider vacating the ‘ claimed ’ seat , laughs even , but Daegeun still rolls his eyes as he brings his glass ( third of the night, starting off strong ) up to his lips and swallows the remains, fingers tapping on the bar top until the bartender is rolling their eyes at him and pouring him more scotch. ❝ By the holy fucking spirit , ❞ it’s muted sarcasm because , well , Iseul isn’t the last person he’d want to see and that’s that. ❝ Whatever , stay. what are you doing here ? Drinking frustrations away or just … drinking ? ❞ He asks and then downs his fourth glass, ❝ buy my drinks then , I left my wallet in my car and I’m pretty sure that son of a bitch is thinking about cutting me , of all people , off. Can you fucking believe it ? ❞
there’s inevitably the detested entropy of time, wilting against the base of his mouth as the night grows older. he grows parched. he grows relentless with the weight of the misplaced limbs as a result of absence in violence. however, he’s used to it, used to the mechanism of absenteeism when it comes to this so-called ‘professional’ life that he’s living underground. the kings seems to hold him back for a reason, good or not, and as much as he wants to defy orders and accept offers, he also knows that they’re watching. too many pairs of eyes than what he cares to deal with, thus his presence here. meeting a company isn’t in the deal of the package, expectations pressured low to begin with. a company is a company, nonetheless, and he smirks at the remark dripping from the others’ lips. ❛ well, that’s an interesting question, ❜ he speaks with unabated nonchalance. ❛ i assume it’s the former for you, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked. ❜ he takes his first shot, feeling the burn of the substance down his esophagus. ❛ sure, you did. i would, but spill. what makes you so bitter, hm? is it still about the race? ❜
she couldn’t help but lose herself to the fight. she loves the thrill of it, the pure raw adrenaline that courses through her veins as she lands punches, the slight tinge of pain that comes along with her skin splitting open and bleeding out, the sudden coolness of blood splattering on her. she even smirks as the stranger lands a punch square on her face and she feels blood trickling out of her nose.
this is getting good.
she’s by no means a small woman but the man in front of her is much much larger than her. it doesn’t stop her from landing swift blows on him. however, she couldn’t keep this up. there’s no way she would be able to knock him out with lithe punches. and so, she grabs empty bottles of alcohol the spectators neglect to dispose of and throws it to his face. his stance staggers from the momentum chungha is maintaining. for the final blow, she picks up the nearest folded chair near the arena and, with as much power she could muster, flings it again to the guy’s face. she hears something crack (she assumes it’s his nose) and a loud thud on the floor. the referee blows the whistle and chungha thought that he’ll declare her a winner.
but the referee had the audacity to disqualify her for ‘unorthodox methods’.
such bullshit.
before she can even storm towards the referee, a couple of the hellcats pull her away. she’s fuming with anger and she knows that, but she can’t stop herself from seeing red. they leave her in a hallway, telling her to wait as they return to the arena to ‘negotiate’ with the referee. with her all alone, chungha’s head begins buzzing. she breathes heavily as her eyebrows furrowed. she rolls her neck in a useless attempt to calm down and she even goes as far as biting on her tongue to stop herself from screaming.
“what?” she snaps at the person next to her. “what are you looking at?”
for @spatborn
there’s a derivative to the guidelines of the underground fighting rings, one which clutters him with a foreboding edge of ennui. there’s something about being just, being judged. fairness that contains nothing but shards of boredom, monotony ensuing with similar moves it becomes a predictable pattern. for him, these fighters are readable, their moves often calculated to the point where their greed is emanated from their flesh. and the more emotions, the more legislations — well, the easier it is for him to win, for he’s often scriptured with nothing but apathy. he doesn’t calculate the way they do; that’s where the disparity lies. they’re so desperate to win they forget to discard their humanity behind. and he might seem to follow the capillaries of this route, their syllabus often carved to his own steps, but everything is not a circadian rhythm. nothing is set in stone, and that’s how he walks out with the crown.
there are people who forget what it’s like to be less beast, more human in the cage, and that’s what he likes to see. she’s one of them, this hellcats fighter, although she’s constructed of all the raw emotions she can scavenge from her bones. she’s made of fury, it seems, and it’s almost amusing to peruse how she wins the fight. how her face falls upon being declared a loser with her methods deemed unorthodox. there’s laughter simmering in him, and so, he walks out, vacating the place towards the backdoor. he itches to smoke, to occupy himself in an attempt of distraction from the emptiness of violence. it’s been a few hours since his last match, and it’s started gnawing again. he’s about to reach for his pack when he sees her out, the turmoil still marking her countenance with a blatant, unabashed display of wrath. he smirks to himself, and fishes out his pack from the pocket of his leather jacket. when she snaps at him, he wedges a pause, lighting his cigarette. inhales, exhales. ❛ nothing, really, ❜ he shrugs. ❛ such a loss. to lose, i mean. you technically won. ❜
the aftermath of the fight has been sledged across the night moments after, smeared across his face with fresh blood spat from his opponent’s mouth. he bears the guiltless face of the innocent, insides colored by the lacquer of carnal desires. triumph is one thing, pain is another. to inflict the latter to as plenty as possible etches a sense of its own satisfaction within, whim clattered throughout the wall of his bodily atriums. this is his brand of a kingdom, and they are the brand of a victim. in this hierarchy, he’s sitting on the top, watching as vital points become rotten to the bone marrows. except, when you’re seated on the throne, opposition always follows. and he swallows them whole, all the dissonance and discordance.
tonight is of no exception when he’s ambushed and surrounded by a dozen of men, approximately three out of four equipped with their weapon of choice. and as always, he doesn’t know how to walk away from fights when he knows he’s going to win anyway. sounds like a vocation that clatters against the back of the mind; this is a holy ground of burial, although he’ll aim to injure. gravely so. there’s no justification to a ganging up, so he’ll be justified either way. self-defense that he’s going to exploit to its core, the nature of the fight imbalanced but he’s not without any preparation. in fact, he always walks expecting a fight. outside the ring, outside the rules. he’s a body of calm violence, his methodical release comes from this.
as they come closer, shouting at him for beating one of their gang members brutally in the ring, he only smirks a lopsided one. shortly, in the absence of an answer, the cacophony rises. and shortly, in the presence of an invite, the angered riots. they stop counting and start hitting at the sight of his bike chain, hanging loose from his fists. he might be alone, but he’s never defenseless, and this, this is his kingdom come. his own moves are rapid as he propels himself forward, maneuvering his way around the first hoard of men to catch the first person to maim. wraps the chain around the nape of the man neck as he gives another closer opponent a kick in the stomach to the point of falling onto the back. they’re spread out now, circling around him carefully as they see the force engraved in his being is not something to be contained with their sheer number.
except as he punches his way, sending his enemies to step backwards in a cry of pain, he feels the existence of someone else in the vicinity. someone familiar, someone that would fucking meddle with his business. the cold of the bike chain wraps around his knuckles like gauzes, and as he multitasks to swing a punch in someone’s face repeatedly, turning a side of it into a pulp, he sees that fucking hyuk starts to channel an assault towards iseul’s enemies. ❛ back the fuck off! ❜ he spits at hyuk, wrath palpable as he keeps ramming the metal against the skin. discards the man as the person grows unconscious. five to go. ❛ you’re ruining my fun, you shit! ❜
@spatborn / IT’S INFURIATING, REALLY. not just how easily the other manages to get under what used to be thick skin, but how easily yehyun lets him. it’s not like he couldn’t stop this if he wanted to (he thinks), but letting himself get played like a fucking puppet? that just wasn’t yehyun’s way. or it didn’t used to be.
regardless, his gaze is piercing as it rests on iseul getting awfully close to some guy he’s never seen before. at least the guy isn’t better looking than yehyun, but iseul seems utterly interested in what the guy is saying, so he may as well be. yehyun does his best to force his eyes away from the two, but they always come right back. who knew he was such a masochist.
what makes it worse is that yehyun knows their relationship is casual and he’s never believed it to be otherwise. they’re not in love, they just fuck. and while sure, he’ll admit that iseul is pretty okay at times (not to mention hot as hell), he really can’t say anything about what the older thinks of him. yehyun couldn’t even tell you if iseul liked him in the most minimal sense of the word. which isn’t something he cares about but…there’s still a weird feeling of something bubbling up no matter how hard yehyun tries to suppress it.
eventually, being the idiot he is, yehyun forgets to periodically look away and his eyes meet iseul’s from across the room. which means he’s caught. fuck.
quickly snapping his head in another direction, he finally decides that if he’s not gonna give a shit, looking away and focusing on something else is probably a start. so yehyun gets right to it, feigning being busy with the drink he forgot he was holding (too busy glaring daggers at iseul and his boytoy). he knows he’s doing pretty well at faking it, but he also knows iseul can be one observant fucker when he wants to be.
but yehyun doesn’t care. he doesn’t.
he’s a bottle of egoistic caprices brimmed to the neck, and he’s no fool: he understands it when people are enamored by the façades that he’s learned to put up over the ages. it’s what makes him so effective, so functional in his line of works, after all. he’s learned no inch of neither sympathy nor empathy, only embroidering himself with such a concept when it’s beneficial for him to do so. feelings are out of his range unless when it’s negative, it seems, and he’s genuinely surprised that he hasn’t harbored any towards yehyun as a person. but maybe it’s the high, the thrill offered by toying with the opulent filaments of yehyun’s heart.
and he knows he’s had it wrapped around his fingers when in his peripheral view, he’s caught repeated offenses from yehyun’s way as he pretends to be interested in whatever the stranger has to say. to be entirely honest, he isn’t interested in the stranger, although it’s a fairly interesting equation now that the stranger is trying to impress him with jokes. he laughs good-naturedly, following the direction of the conversation with relative ease. people are predictable when they’re captured by him, whether it’s physical or intellectual. mostly the former.
having one pair of eyes on him is pilfered satisfaction for him. having two? that’s a bonus, and he intends to play around with that for a while. yehyun is fairly cute, not bad in bed… well, that’s just the gist of it. and he keeps yehyun around because of his emotional vulnerability, even when yehyun seems like the type to try and cover it — especially since yehyun is that. it gives him personal pleasure, given that many would call him self-absorbed, a fanatic that heeds no one else’s needs but his own. and he certainly is. no shame in that, really.
he contains the smirk that he’s been holding when yehyun’s gaze is captured within his own, the moment short-lived but enough to etch the self-consummation that only gets amplified as this game walks along the fences. he lets the emotions simmer for the time being, comprehending well enough that yehyun is consumed by jealousy while trying to recompose himself from the gaffe that just occurred. he doesn’t really leave the stranger’s side until twenty more minutes or so, watching as the stranger lusts over him further and further before deciding that yes, it’s the right time to leave the person hanging. he excuses himself, approaching yehyun. claims the seat next to yehyun’s as he offers a polite smile. ❛ fancy seeing you here, ❜ he says. ❛ i thought it wasn’t you at first. had to double check. ❜
sanha hates the cold. it always seems to seep into his skin easier than most, past his warm veins and settling deep into his marrow. busan hasn’t quite reached winter yet, but the night has an unusual chill to the air. if it was any other time sanha’d be cuddled up in a big puffy coat, or sitting in the toasty heat of his car. but at the races everyone comes to impress. you have your car, your skills, but on the very surface level you have your appearance. and sanha doesn’t race, nor does he have his car with him, so he’s aimed to look good. tight jeans, clunky boots, a simple graphic t-shirt that drapes over his thin frame. he’s dolled it all up with jewelry and glittery eyes, so he knows he looks just as eye-catching as any racer’s fancy ride.
but now the race is over, and even though there are still a handful of people still basking in the after-high of a good race, the event is coming to and end. sanha wants to go home and peel off his skinny jeans to climb into a hot shower. but the friend who drove him to the race has been missing in action for an hour now, and sanha’s starting to shiver in the cold air. he checks his phone again, another desperate attempt, to see he finally has a text. ‘went home with someone. find a new ride.’
“fuck,” he hisses, shoving his phone back into his pocket. crossing his arms over his chest, sanha hunts down the nearest face. he shakes out his stiff limbs before striding over. “the race is over you know,” he begins with a small smile. “aren’t you going to head out like everyone else?”
busan’s veins are colored in the blue of atrophic weather; winter is an unforgiving spectrum with its augured hours that tick closer to the morning. midnight has long passed, just like how the races have, ripening with the weight of possibilities. there’s almost nothing and no one around him but these lonely faces that still linger in the vicinity, illuminated by the scarce stores’ blue lights. feels like he misplaces his limbs again, contorting them to the point of irreversibility even when he knows that it’s naught but the anchor of violence that awaits its release. he’s not a fighter tonight, but his fists itch to become one.
nothing but emptiness, coming out as the winner of the night against the amateur racers is nothing new for kings. there’s no spike to the adrenaline to it anymore: nothing brandished anew with the partiture of a break from the humdrum. it’s all the same old, same old. he simply smokes another cigarette in a vice that he seldom indulges. tonight, it’s to cease the boredom, to simply function with the absence of thrill.
he’s in the midst of burning his second when someone approaches him in large strides, the air of vacillation in the person’s motions. it’s a pretty sight. he knows of this person, but he doesn’t recall much. nothing comes to mind even when he’s certain he’s in the same gang as the person. an almost stranger, and upon being asked the question, he turns his head fully, leaving billowing smokes in his wake. he shrugs. ❛ why, you got ditched? ❜ asks in a manner nonchalant enough, but also rich of contained amusement. someone doesn’t simply ask an almost stranger to go home.
THE SMALL SPACE reeks of blood & sweat. it’s as unbearable as it is oddly comforting, like the smell of home maybe, or something close to it. people are starting to filter out, match long over, money lost or money won, but yeseo lingers, her eyes searching for a certain someone. she doesn’t have to wait long. he emerges just a few moments later, almost emitting some sort of aura that spells out w i n n e r. she might admire it, if it didn’t come at the expense of her hellcat pride.
“ that was a good match you fought, i take it you won, as usual ?? ”
one: the vertigo that comes from overwhelming thrill is the most welcome pleasures that he can imbibe for the night, lungs filled full with the carcinogen as the aftermath of the victory; a vice that he indulges every now and then. two: in the overflow of this deluge, he’s a man claiming the throne, and each pair of eyes fixated on him is another careless whisper for an invitation, for a chat, for something more. three: adoration-bound, he’s a bouquet of late night satisfaction, the drip drop siphoned from the fact that he’s hit all the mapped out vital points in his mind, causing his enemies to stumble backwards as he watches in his absence of empathy.
another individual’s pain has always been his drive, he’s not going to lie. it crowns him into a vulture, which he loves, gnawing on the marrows of his opponents. fatal blows that do not seem like ones until it’s a tad too late — he’s always had sadistic streaks in him. a childhood carved of this very memory, he knows better than to state otherwise. he’s a coast of those seeking a shore of perpetuated masochistic waters. thoughts wilt, wither. he crushes the remnant of his cigarette underneath his balenciaga sneaker, and heads back in. upon his arrival, most of them have already vacated the scene. he can feel her eyes trained on him, a certain bookie. been there for a while, it seems. when she speaks to none other than him, he turns, facing her. ❛ you didn’t watch? ❜ he asks back casually, tone implying nothing.
It’s not something he ever saw himself doing in life ( it’s more surprising to him than the fact he’s ended up in the kings ) , but he isn’t going to complain ; he’s technically not supposed to , but at the same time it’s not like he’s watched like a hawk either , and it’s not like he has an addiction , or so he’ll claim — and being a bartender meant he had access to countless high-dollar spirits and liqueurs , and he’s not going to pass up on the opportunity to drink for free and that’s a fact. Still , sometimes he really fuckin’ hates coming into work and so he shows up as a customer instead ( put it on my tab , yes I’m going to pay it , no you don’t need to double check , who even are you again ? ) , and tonight is one of those nights. He’s bitter over losses and last night his impromptu challenge against some hellcat was met with him tasting defeat — a flavor that was becoming way to familiar. It’s crowded and seats are few and far between , so he’s not surprised when the stool next to him is soon filled , but it doesn’t stop him from fixing a glare on the figure. ❝ Fuck off , that seats taken. ❞ Yeah, by his impossibly large and extremely damaged pride.
the glints of the crystal glasses and bottles shine the most beautiful amidst the frictions caused by bodies against bodies. in this soundproof room, he’s an antithesis of their substance-ridden veins, still fully sober. perhaps not for too long, depending on how fast he wants the freeflow to pour. the cascade into his system is typically languid, sluggish. doesn’t like being inebriated for it dampens his senses, so he’d rather stay there for the atmospheric distraction. he meanders his way around the club for a spot in the bar, and upon spotting an empty bar ( and a pair of familiar, hunched shoulders next to it — he doesn’t need to see faces, some people are readable from their postures and shapes alone ), he makes a beeline towards it. upon claiming the seat, however, the person — far from being a stranger — tells him that the seat’s taken. barks a measured laugh as he inquires, ❛ by whom? ❜ quirks an eyebrow. ❛ well, i’ll go if anyone tries claiming this throne from me for the night. but for now, i’ll get myself some quick drinks. ❜
after dark thoughts atrophy , carved walls over bruised knuckles , violent waves of white noises. — as represented by kim jongin, twenty-two years old pre-medical student with a focus on anatomy. a member of the gang for four years.
hello, hello! so excited to have this roleplay finally opening — i’m rosé, the typist behind this man named baek iseul, who’s pretty much summed up by being a two-faced godmode. i’m bad at introducing myself, so i’ll move on from there, but basically iseul belongs in the street racing and underground fighting positions in kings. he’s been with the gang for quite a while, approximately a few years, and here’s a sparknote on him before i finalize these bullet points into a summed up about, prose and all that jazz, later when i’m not lazy. so... eventually. also, please press the like button if you’d like to plot, of course! i also have a discord if you’d like to plot there, just send me your username and number, and i’ll fly off to add you. for now, here’s iseul’s about:
he’s always had a hurricane of violence brewing inside him as a child. he was quiet, his body too small to contain the bouts of tantrum that he would throw every now and then. birthed as the only son of a prominent hospital’s shareowners and neurosurgeons, his parents coo on his little wrath until they grew bored busy. a child was too much to handle for two ambitious people, and so, they began to veer away from him, leaving him to stay with his grandfather from his mother’s side.
his grandfather was a conservative, so he made the boy channel his inner violence through martial arts, and as he grew older, even weaponry. he excelled in class with ease, being a genius, and outside the school, he thrived via the mechanisms of violence coursing through his veins. his grandfather eventually tried toning him down by making him play piano, and he agreed to it as he believed it would help his cause, understanding that it would help his logic.
long story short, his boyhood museum was contrived with a lot of courses that shaped him to be an intellect. a creepy one at that, nonetheless. he was extremely mature as a kid, and extremely quiet. he did not bully other kids, but would fight back when necessary — he didn’t, and doesn’t do acts that wouldn’t help his selfish cause. when his grandfather passed when he was only twelve, he didn’t shed a tear. apathy was a strong trait that manifested in him still young. parents knew that, but did nothing to abate the child’s apparent mental coldness.
he also grew up to become a doctor, like his parents, and he knows he won’t stop just at being a general practitioner. he’s to inherit everything his parents have, just as he inherited what his grandfather had. squandered the money on the car ( a chameleon black lamborghini veneno ), and when he was picked up by the gang when he was joining the underground ring to fight — because how else would a boy with too much violence surging in his veins would cope? — he was around seventeen.
currently in school, still, in his last year of pre-med majoring in anatomy. he was in the less than top 1% of the korean equivalent of sat, graduating high school without a lot of arduous efforts. calculative, manipulative. he’s definitely a double-edged sword, very self-centric. he doesn’t care about the gang rivalry, just the thrill of it all. he exhibits tendencies to be friendly as a front, amicable enough to make camaraderies with most people. inside, however, cannot care less.
his skills in martial arts keep evolving. he combines his knowledge as a pre-med student with his practical attributes, striking the physiques at the vital points. knows where to hurt the most, mentally and physically. still plays the façade of an innocent student, even when involved with the gang. outside the ring, his weapon of choice is usually bike chains, wrapped around his knuckles. he likes the personalized, creative touch of it. can use knives and guns just fine. was an archer. a fencer. a pianist. a violinist.
still an artist. in his free time, he likes to people watch and read their expressions, carving them into portraits in graphites. he’s also damn good at drawing. his forte: the art of forgery. he cheats, lies, steals. sleeps with you if necessary, but needs are just that, needs. relationships with him are possible, but would be toxic — he’s not entirely sane. people usually came into relationships with him expecting a flower boy next door, and after a while, they would notice that something was off.
