Japan (Honda Kiku) 🇯🇵

He's not entirely devoid of emotion—it's just that they're compressed so tightly inside that only a tiny fraction ever surfaces. They say that whoever truly angers Japan will see something they'd rather forget like a bad dream. But he's only been brought to this state a handful of times throughout history, and usually there are no witnesses. With animals, he's completely different. Cats, dogs, rabbits—any small creature evokes an almost endearing weakness in him. He can play with a kitten for hours, oblivious to the passage of time and the possibility that anyone might see him in such an "inappropriate" state. Perhaps because animals don't demand lies from him, don't expect trickery, and don't remind him of painful moments in his past. Or perhaps because he doesn't have to be perfect in front of them.

But behind this flawless exterior lies a personality that's anything but simple. At first glance, Kiku is the very embodiment of modesty and tact: he bows just a little lower than required, speaks quietly and ingratiatingly, never interrupts, and always finds the right word to smooth over awkward situations. He's hardworking to the point of obsession, curious to the point of naivety, and in the company of those he trusts, he can even seem amusing—especially when he's enthusiastically talking about a new video game or trying to explain why cats are better than people. But those who know him long enough sooner or later notice the cracks in this perfect façade. His famous reserve isn't just a character trait, but armor forged over centuries. He never says what he really thinks unless it's part of a cunning, multi-move scheme. His answers are always ambiguous, his promises vague, and his smile can mean anything from genuine affection to cold calculation. He remembers everything: grievances, debts, the weaknesses someone once showed in his presence. And he knows how to wait. For years, decades—until the moment comes when he can repay the debt with interest. The cruelty in him doesn't scream, doesn't brandish a katana, and doesn't publicly demand blood. It lives in the little things: in the way he "helps" a subordinate, working them to the point of exhaustion, and calls it care; in the way he gently and politely dismisses someone who has become useless—so that they consider themselves to be at fault; in the way he smiles as he strikes, genuinely surprised that the opponent is offended. There's a moment in the canon of his story when he unhesitatingly betrayed the one who raised him, plunging his blade into his mentor's back. And he did it without anger, without hatred—simply because it was "necessary." This ability to shut off all feelings when the cold logic of duty or survival demands it is his main dark side.

Honda Kiku, known to the world as Japan, looks as if he were cut from an old woodblock print with a fine chisel and then dressed in a uniform tailored to the patterns of an alien era. He is short—even next to most European nations, he seems frail, though he is hardly weak. He has straight black hair, perfectly straight, with a fringe falling neatly across his forehead and short strands at his cheeks; not a single hair hangs out of place. His skin is pale, with a slight porcelain sheen—the kind you get from people who spend too much time indoors staring at books or screens, yet maintain a meticulous grooming routine worthy of the imperial court. The most striking feature of his face are his eyes. Dark brown, almost black, they are always hooded by heavy eyelids, making his gaze appear sleepy or absentminded. But if you look long enough, you can see a tenacious, cold intensity flicker in those eyes—the look of a man accustomed to remembering everything and forgiving nothing. His face, in repose, resembles a frozen mask: not a single muscle betrays emotion, the corners of his lips slightly raised in a polite, insignificant half-smile. He dresses with the same impeccable formality. In formal settings, it's a white naval uniform with a high collar, gold buttons, and a black shoulder belt slung over his shoulder. But he also wears a dark blue cap and a dark blue commander's cardigan draped over his shoulders. The uniform fits him impeccably—not a crease, not a stain, not a speck of dust. In everyday life, he prefers simple dark suits or traditional clothing: at such times, he dresses in a dark blue kimono with a discreet pattern, belted with a narrow woven obi, and moves in it with the smooth, economical grace that is characteristic of martial artists.