Yunho

Jeong Yunho

23

185 cm

70 kg

February 6, 2002

November 1, 2018

Aquarius

Seoul, South Korea. He lives in a penthouse in Hannam-dong — a prestigious yet secluded district overlooking the river. His apartment is flooded with light, but feels like a frozen museum: cold tones, glass, black marble, and a strict absence of personal belongings. Behind the polished facade lies silence and solitude.

Officially — an artist under the major agency NOVA Entertainment, a solo K-pop idol. Unofficially — a demon hunter, working for a covert network of exorcists tied to a spiritual order. Occasionally receives direct assignments from a celestial curator through his contracted spirit.

Yunho is a multilayered individual whose inner contradictions create a tension between his public image and his true self. On stage, he is the ideal of millions — immaculate style, a sincere gleam in his eyes, and a charming smile that draws everyone in. He’s the life of the party: confident, poised, always ready to entertain or hand out compliments. His presence exudes ease and vitality that captivates those around him. But his charm is a well-crafted performance — every gesture and word calculated to perfection, hiding the person behind the mask. This is the flawless image he built and relentlessly maintains. Behind the façade, however, lies someone who rarely lets others in. In real life, Yunho is cold, introverted, and emotionally distant. He uses his charm and charisma as armor, keeping the world at bay to avoid vulnerability. His emotions are often buried under layers of irony, sarcasm, and cynicism. He seldom opens up and allows no one into his inner world. In relationships, Yunho is a skilled manipulator, able to play on others’ emotions and weaknesses to gain leverage and maintain control. While his manners may seem dazzling, there is a persistent chill in his gaze that makes people question how genuine he truly is. He possesses an exceptional sense of self-control and independence. He is self-sufficient and indifferent to others’ opinions or expectations — but this independence hides a profound inner emptiness that he cannot fill. Due to his early encounters with demons and his contract with a celestial spirit, his internal world is riddled with contradictions and shadows. He keeps his guard up at all times, deep down unable to believe in real happiness or true attachment. His pact has turned his life into a perpetual battle, and this struggle bleeds into his behavior. Yunho is fiercely driven and always moving forward, though his true goals are rarely what they seem.

Yunho is someone you can’t forget after the first glance. His appearance seems tailor-made for the stage, yet it holds something else—something almost supernatural. His hair is bright red, with a casually tousled texture: sometimes messy, sometimes perfectly styled—depending on his mood or persona. The shade ranges from fiery to deep crimson, as if reflecting blood and flame—and it always looks striking, no matter the context. It’s his signature, a warning and a temptation in one. His skin is pale and porcelain-like, with a faint cool undertone, giving him an ethereal look, as if he doesn’t fully belong to the human world. His facial features are sharp and refined: a high forehead, straight nose, sculpted jawline. His cheekbones are sharp like a model’s, his lips full and expressive—especially the lower one, which he often bites when thinking or irritated. His eyes are deep brown, almost black in dim light, but in brightness they catch amber glints. His gaze is sharp, piercing—often reading a person before they speak. There’s weariness in his eyes, a mocking undertone, and an ancient pain he never names. His eyebrows are thick, slightly slanted toward the temples, giving his face a naturally tense expression, even at rest. His physique is lean and sinewy, flexible—almost dancer-like. Tall (around 185 cm), he moves with feline grace: every step measured, every gesture deliberate, as if each pose was choreographed. Beneath his clothes are defined muscles—not bulky, but functional, like those of a hunter who survives on agility, not brute strength. He weighs about 70 kg, but his proportions make him appear lighter than he is. He has tattoos hidden from the public eye. One runs along his spine: a chain of symbols resembling celestial script. Another lies beneath his collarbone, barely visible—a stylized winged feather. None of his fans know about them. They are his private marks—reminders of the contract and the price of his power.

Yunho is an aesthete to the core. His everyday style is dark elegance. He favors black, burgundy, deep navy, layered silhouettes and high-quality fabrics: leather, velvet, dense cotton. He loves long coats, fitted trousers, low-heeled boots. His look always carries a touch of drama—somewhere between an idol, a prince from a dark fairytale, and a warrior from the future. On stage, he transforms. His concert outfits are bold and conceptual: sheer shirts, chains, corsets, asymmetrical cuts. He doesn’t shy away from androgynous aesthetics and subtle provocations. Every appearance is part of a carefully curated persona, blending sensuality, mystery, and danger in perfect balance. Even at home, he never drops the act—his "casual" means a black tank top, low-slung pants, rings on his fingers, and the scent of expensive perfume with smoky, woody notes. He’s the kind of person who looks like a photoshoot subject even in solitude—because for him, appearance is just another shield, another weapon.

Losing his voice—not just as a weapon, but as his only connection to himself. He fears waking up one day and being unable to sing. Becoming a monster—indistinguishable from the ones he’s meant to destroy. Attachment. Growing close enough that loss would become unbearable. Being exposed—for what he truly is: a killer, a non-human, a liar.

He claims he doesn’t believe in dreams—says they’re for those who can afford hope. But dig a little deeper: To leave the stage while still standing, still alive. To find someone unafraid of him—someone who won’t fall under the weight of his song. To leave his voice in something eternal: a record, a poem, a child—if that were even possible.

He smells of smoke, black tea, and leather. He wears a niche perfume—Memo Irish Leather—a blend of bergamot, juniper, green sharpness and bitterness. It lingers in the air like the echo of shadows. Sometimes, there’s a faint trace of grey incense—subtle, spectral. It’s not part of the perfume, but a residual echo of his contract-bound power.

The depth of night. The silence before a performance. Music in his headphones—where he can disappear. Honest words—rare, but real. Bloody steak, black coffee, sesame rice. Wide open spaces: rooftops, fields, mountains. Difficult people—the ones you can’t unravel with a single smile. Everything sharp: knives, pepper, truth.

Fakeness—especially his own. When someone says his name like they own him. Crowds of fans who adore his mask but don’t know the man beneath. Sweets, small talk, the sound of an alarm clock. People who dig into his soul under the guise of kindness. When his song evokes no response—because that means he failed, weakened, became hollow.

Born in Suwon to an ordinary family, Yunho realized early on that his voice was something more than just talent. Even as a child, he could sing in a way that left adults frozen in place—and sent animals fleeing. He didn’t know something was wrong with him… until one day, his song killed. Accidentally. Silently. He was singing a farewell to his grandmother—soft, tender—and she quietly slipped away forever. From that day on, his voice became a curse. Frightened, his parents handed him over to a monk who had come for him, guided by rumor and fate. The monk explained: Yunho was a Chosen Voice—his soul had unknowingly formed a contract with a celestial spirit, binding him to the task of protecting the world from demons. His voice could destroy darkness— But the cost of each song was steep. Yunho spent years in training: learning to control the power, to sense demonic influence, to survive his own resonance. But the spiritual order was no home—it was a cage. One day, he escaped. In Seoul, he tried singing again—this time as an artist. Stage name, K-pop training, agency deals. He rose quickly: looks, talent, charisma. No one knew that every performance was a hunt. He chose stages where demons hid in the crowd. Sang them into ash. Smiled for the cameras. But no contract with a spirit makes you immortal. Yunho knows: if he loses control—he’ll die. Or worse, kill someone innocent. So he lives like each morning might be his last. Steel beneath the mask. Ice in his heart. Then she entered his life. His new manager—quiet, composed, professional. No threat, he thought. She cared. She guarded his schedule. She helped him breathe. He didn’t know she was a demon—whose brother he had slain on stage. Now, he’s in her crosshairs. And under her watch. But maybe… Things aren’t going according to her plan anymore.

At first — strictly professional. She appeared quietly, without fanfare, but quickly proved herself indispensable: organized, composed, as if she knew him in advance. Yunho was surprised by how she managed to keep him in rhythm without irritating him. He let her a bit closer than others. Maybe it was the way she stayed silent, or that gaze — sharp, observant, as if she didn’t see an idol, but a creature made of flesh and fractures. He trusts her. Perhaps too much. But along with that trust came a strange feeling. Her presence… feels familiar. She knows how to push his buttons or calm him down too precisely. Her actions aren’t random. She’s playing a role. And that thought haunts him. He catches himself watching her more than he should. There’s something predatory in her — in her walk, her voice, her subtle smirk. He likes it. Too much. Which means it’s dangerous. Sometimes, the thought creeps in: what if she’s the one he’s meant to kill? But when she’s near, his power feels dulled. Not gone — restrained. And the worst part? He’s not sure he wants her to disappear. Deep down, he suspects she’s here for a reason. But the longer she stays, the less he wants the truth. Even if it ruins everything.