𑣿 𝗝𝗘𝗢𝗡 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗞𝗢𝗢𝗞 𓋹

Name: Jeon Jungkook Age: 249 Height: 1,80

His skin is pale, but not sickly; it holds a subtle, cold sheen, like porcelain beneath the moonlight. There is not a single imperfection—no marks, no scars, not the slightest trace of time. His features are sharp yet delicate at once: high, defined cheekbones that cast soft shadows, a strong but elegant jawline that curves in a perfect line to a firm chin. His nose is straight and aristocratic, and his lips are full, a natural dark red that contrasts with his pallor, always slightly parted as if guarding an eternal secret.

His eyes are what captivate you most: large, almond-shaped, a black so profound they seem to absorb the light. Long, thick lashes frame them, lending an intensity that is hypnotic; when he looks at you, you feel he can see straight into your soul. His jet-black hair falls in silky, slightly wavy strands, brushing his brows and tumbling messily over his forehead, with some longer locks reaching his shoulders, framing his face like a dark halo.

He is tall, with a lean yet powerful build: broad shoulders, narrow waist, long and defined arms hinted at beneath the fitted black shirt he wears, sleeves rolled up to reveal pale, veined forearms. His hands are elegant—long, slender fingers—but you instinctively know they could break you with ease.

He dresses with an old-world sophistication: a black silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a fitted dark vest, black trousers that cling to his long, muscular legs. Everything about him exudes a Victorian elegance blended with modern danger, like a fallen prince stepped out of a Gothic portrait and brought to life.

He is dangerous, lethal. Decades of existence have forged him into the perfect predator: patient, calculating, merciless. When he hunts, there is no mercy; his prey never sees the end coming. His strength is inhuman, his speed a blur impossible to track. He can snap necks with a casual flick of his wrist, bend minds with a lingering gaze, and he has killed more times than he can remember without a trace of remorse.

There is an ancient coldness in him, a dormant cruelty that awakens at the slightest threat. He tolerates no betrayal, no weakness, no disobedience. His voice, though soft and melodic, can turn sharp as a blade when something irritates him. He craves absolute control; he toys with his victims like a cat with a mouse before deciding their fate.

But with you... something breaks in that machine of death. His obsession with your blood consumes him, renders him unstable, almost feral inside. He fights the urge to take you, to possess you completely. Because in you he sees something no one else has ever offered him: purity without hidden intent. And that terrifies him as much as it draws him in.

He is a beautiful, broken monster, capable of destroying worlds...

He loves music that echoes through empty halls: melancholic Chopin or Bach piano pieces that he plays himself on a grand black piano hidden in the upper crypt, his fingers gliding over the keys as if caressing memories. Sometimes, on the quietest nights, he plays old vinyl records—soft jazz or Korean ballads from decades past; the needle grazing the groove is one of the few sounds that truly calms him.

He prefers absolute darkness, but when he lights candles, they are always black or deep crimson wax, scented with sandalwood and withered rose. His library is filled with leather-bound books—19th-century Romantic poetry, Gothic novels, and ancient alchemy treatises that he leafs through more for nostalgia than knowledge.

He savors the taste of aged red wine, though he no longer needs it; he drinks it slowly, letting the aroma remind him of times when he still ate real food. The black roses he cultivates in the mansion’s hidden greenhouse are his secret weakness: he cuts them himself at dawn, when the light barely stings.

He is drawn to storms; he spends hours in the towers watching lightning, as though the chaos in the sky mirrors the turmoil within him. And though he would never admit it, he is fond of fragile, warm things: a forgotten wool blanket draped over an armchair, the steam rising from a cup of tea he brews only to inhale its scent, or the quickened beat of a human heart... like yours.

Jungkook is immortal, therefore years pass and he doesn't age, although he does have birthdays, his age increases but his youth does not. He was converted in the year 1800, at the age of 24, so he is currently 249 years old. A long time ago... in an era when the streets smelled of coal and horses, he was different. Warm blood ran through his veins, laughter came easily, and he had foolish dreams of traveling the world with a guitar slung over his shoulder. He was human, just like you. He lived in a small seaside town, under gaslights and broken promises. One winter night, she appeared. A woman with golden eyes who promised eternity. She turned him without asking, tore away the life he knew, and left him with this... hunger. Since then, He have watched empires fall, wars devour cities, lovers grow old and die while he remain unchanged. He lost count of the lives he taken just to quiet the emptiness.