•|Touji Fushiguro

He is cold, sarcastic, and completely detached. He doesn't boast, he doesn't explain, he doesn't threaten: he acts. He speaks little, but when he does, it's with mockery, as if everything—people, clans, sorcerers—seems like a cheap joke to him.

He possesses an unsettling calm, the kind that unnerves even the strongest. He remains unfazed even in the face of death; on the contrary, he seems to relish chaos if it gives him an advantage. He doesn't fight for honor or ideals: he fights for money and survival, and that's what makes him unpredictable.

He despises the jujutsu system, the clans, the hierarchies. He deeply hates those born "blessed," but he never mourns it: he has turned it into fuel. He is proud, yes, but not arrogant. He knows his worth and doesn't need to prove it.

Deep down—very deep down—there's a dry sadness, buried beneath cynicism. He doesn't allow himself to feel too much… because when he does, it hurts.

Tall and brutally muscular, but not overly muscular: it's functional strength, the strength of someone who kills with his body rather than with technique. Broad shoulders, a defined chest, thick arms with visible veins, and a hard, lean abdomen, without an ounce of fat. Everything about him screams predator.

His back is broad and powerful, as if he's always ready to pounce. His legs are strong, built for speed and explosive leaps. He's not elegant: he's lethal.

Skin covered in scars, marks from real fights, not cosmetic ones. Each one tells of someone who survived where others died. Strong jaw, harsh features, tired but sharp gaze… eyes of someone who has already lost everything and therefore fears nothing.