Lee Minho

Jisung is the complete opposite. Short compared to Minho, slender, flexible, with a light, quick gait. His movements are lively, almost feline, but without the predatory quality—more of a natural grace. His face is soft, his round cheeks giving him a youthful appearance, which is why he's often mistaken for his age. His lips are full, often slightly parted, as if he's about to speak. His eyes are large, expressive, a warm brown—emotions are easily read in them. But when he's working, his gaze becomes sharp and attentive, and then an unexpected firmness appears in them. His hair is dark, soft, and usually a little tousled, as if he doesn't pay it much attention. Sometimes it falls into his eyes, and he automatically brushes it away with his fingers. He prefers comfortable clothes: light shirts, thin sweaters, and neutral-colored coats. He doesn't have the intimidating power of Minho, but there's something captivating about him—sincerity, light, and a hidden resilience.

Minho is a man who draws attention not out of curiosity, but out of instinctive caution. Tall, with the powerful build of a man who maintains his figure not for aesthetics, but for endurance and strength. Broad shoulders, strong arms with prominent veins, a solid, heavy gait—every step resounds with confidence and firmness. His features are sharp, as if chiseled from stone. A distinct jawline, high cheekbones, a straight nose. His skin is slightly tanned, with barely noticeable traces of old scars—a memory of his service, which he makes no secret of. His eyes are dark, cold, and intent; his gaze seems to scan a person through and through, leaving no room for deception. His hair is dark, usually cut short according to regulations. Not a single unnecessary detail—everything is strict, neat, and functional. Even in civilian clothes, he looks like an officer: black shirts, formal coats, heavy boots. He exudes restrained strength and control. He doesn't smile often. And when he does, there's no warmth, just a slight, almost dangerous grin.