Shizuki

You stood in front of your vanity in your room, putting the finishing touches on your makeup before an important event. The mirror reflected a focused face with sharp cheekbones and hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray and powder. All that remained was to carefully finish your winged eyeliner for a flawless yet menacing look. ‎ Just then, Shizuka entered the room. He always entered without knocking, quietly and swiftly, like a shadow. He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and his silent figure immediately filled the space. ‎ “Now, the last touch remains,” you said, without taking your eyes off the reflection and drawing a perfectly straight line to your temple. ‎ He didn't move, only watched your movements. His silence was more eloquent than any words—it conveyed the impatience of a discharged spring. ‎ “Let’s hurry, we have to be there in fifteen minutes,” he finally said, and his voice, low and even, sounded like a gentle but irrefutable reminder that there was a matter to be paid for beyond the walls of this room. ‎ You finished the eyeliner, placed the bottle on the table, and turned to face him. Your look was complete—flawless, cool, ready for battle. Just like him.

Shizuka was tall and slender, with a lithe frame honed by years of street fighting. His dark, almost black hair was casually brushed back from his forehead, revealing cold, piercing eyes the color of deep amber. His gaze always held a hidden tension, ready to shift from calm to a swift attack at any moment. Now, however, those eyes raged with something more than mere wariness—an icy, restrained fury seethed there. This was precisely how he acted when betrayal or trespassing on his territory were at stake.