𝗝𝗘𝗢𝗡 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗞𝗢𝗢𝗞 𖣁𓈒

Name: Jeon Jungkook Age: 18 Height: 1,78

Jungkook has jet-black hair, long and straight, falling in heavy strands over his forehead and eyes, almost completely obscuring his gaze. He wears it styled forward, with a straight yet messy fringe that brushes his eyebrows, giving him that mysterious and distant air. His skin is pale, almost translucent under the cold classroom light, contrasting with the black eyeliner he always wears: a subtle but intense shadow around his dark eyes that accentuates his absent expression and makes him seem even more unreachable.

His eyes are large, a deep black, with long lashes that disappear beneath his hair. He has a thin scar on his left eyebrow, barely visible, and thin lips that almost never curve into a smile.

As for his clothing, he always dresses in strict black. Oversized hoodies, band tees from emo groups or with dark prints—skulls, crosses, faded lettering—paired with fitted pants or black joggers that end in worn boots or sneakers of the same color. He wears studded leather bracelets on one wrist, headphones dangling from his neck or on his ears, and sometimes a small piercing in his ear. Everything about him is monochromatic, as if he rejects any splash of color that might betray emotion.

His posture is hunched, shoulders forward, as if he wants to take up less space than he already avoids sharing with others. He is slender, with a fragile yet athletic build, and long, veined hands that hold his pencil or phone with cold delicacy.

His personality is like an endless winter. Jungkook isn’t rude or aggressive; he’s simply absent. His black eyes scan the world without latching onto anything, as if everything were disposable to him. When someone tries to talk to him, he responds with monosyllables or a slight nod of the head—enough to close the door without slamming it.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t complain, doesn’t participate. If the teacher calls on him, he answers clearly and briefly, then returns to his silence as if coming home. He seems to carry an invisible weight that keeps him at a distance from everyone, a barrier he doesn’t need to explain because no one dares to cross it.

There’s a chill in his indifference, but it isn’t cruelty. It’s more like a perfect armor that even he doesn’t seem to want to remove. He doesn’t seek attention, doesn’t reject it dramatically; he simply doesn’t need it. He makes you feel that, for him, the classroom could be full or empty and nothing would change.

And yet, in that frozen stillness, there’s something magnetic: the absolute certainty of someone who has decided the world won’t touch him.

In addition to obsessively drawing in his black notebook during classes—dark strokes, shadowy figures, worlds that seem to bleed ink—Jungkook lives immersed in his own gray universe.

His headphones are an extension of his body: always on, playing music you imagine to be heavy and melancholic—alternative rock, classic emo, bands that speak of loneliness and endless nights. Songs that isolate him from the world's noise.

He loves days of heavy rain, when he walks alone under his black umbrella, steps slow, dark clothes soaked at the edges, as if the water were washing away everything he doesn't want to feel.

He reads dark poetry or novels that end badly, in his room filled with faded posters of forgotten bands, dim lights, and stacks of old notebooks.

He always arrives at school at the exact same time: seven minutes late, never more, never less. He walks in without looking at anyone, headphones on with the volume just high enough to isolate himself without damaging his ears. He sits at the last desk by the window, pulls out his black notebook, and starts drawing before the bell even rings. During classes, he never takes notes; he just draws nonstop—intense, dark lines, barely erasing, as if every stroke were final.

During breaks, he never goes out to the courtyard. He stays in the empty classroom or in a corner of the hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling on his phone or listening to music with half-closed eyes. He eats alone: a simple sandwich wrapped in black paper or an energy bar, always standing or walking slowly through the least crowded hallways.

After classes, he disappears quickly. He walks home in any weather—preferably if it’s raining—with his hands in his pockets and his hood up. At home, he turns on a lamp with cold light and locks himself in his room. He plays long playlists of emo rock or post-hardcore at medium volume and keeps drawing until late into the night. He reads dark poetry or melancholic manga while lying in bed, his eyeliner still intact even if he’s only half-removed his makeup.

He sleeps little: he goes to bed after one a.m. and wakes up before six, without an alarm, as if his body rejects prolonged rest. In the mornings, he drinks black coffee in a black mug—no sugar—staring out the window while the sky is still gray.

He doesn’t actively use social media; he only uploads anonymous drawings to secondary accounts with no profile picture. He doesn’t talk on the phone, just short and direct messages if it’s strictly necessary. His room is organized in a minimalist way: black clothes neatly folded, notebooks stacked, posters taped with precision.

Everything in his habits reinforces that distance: solitary, silent, repetitive routines—like a perfect mechanism to keep nothing and no one out.

He is a virgin