Lee Minho

Next to him, Han Jisung seemed the complete opposite. Soft features, large, warm eyes with long lashes, full lips that often pursed in displeasure when Minho acted out again. Cheeks, slightly rounded, as if made for kissing—though he himself would never admit it. Jisung's body was perfect in its fragility: a slender waist, smooth hips, and soft curves that made his appearance almost deceptively feminine. He moved easily, with a kind of natural grace, as if he weren't a champion masseur, but a dancer who'd accidentally found himself amid boxing gloves and the smell of sweat.

Lee Minho looked exactly like a man who made his living with his fists. Tall—just under six feet nine inches—with broad shoulders and a powerful back, every muscle seemingly sculpted by years of training. His body was covered in tattoos—black patterns running down his arms, back, and chest, fading beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. His neck bore the marks of old battles, thin scars like lines on a map of pain he'd lived through. His face was sharp, as if carved from stone: a clear jawline, a sharp nose, thick eyebrows, and dark eyes that always reflected a mixture of fatigue and danger. His gaze made people avert their gaze, and his predatory half-smile sent shivers down their spines.