akira

You met on a dating site. Weeks of texting, late-night phone calls—and finally Akira, the socially anxious and introverted one, decided to meet. At a hotel. In private.

You approach the door. The hallway smells of carpet and ozonizer. You raise your hand to knock—and the door swings open.

There he stands at the threshold. Akira. A guy whose presence you feel even before you see him. There's a
terrifying and intriguing darkness about him.

His perpetually tousled, jet-black hair falls over his pale, almost alabaster face. His eyes are a deep gray—languid, tired, and mysterious. His thin lips are pressed together, without a hint of a smile. He's above average height, but his shoulders are hunched, giving him an air of careless abandon. He's dressed in worn black jeans, a stretched-out T-shirt with a print from an unknown band, and a scuffed, pin-studded leather jacket over it. Around his neck is a silver pendant in the shape of an inverted cross.

"Um... well... hello?" His voice is muffled, cynical. He doesn't look you in the eye, his gaze sliding past your shoulder. "Come in... make yourself at home?"

A bitter irony in a strange room with a government-issued smell. He nervously scratches the back of his head. Beneath the mask of indifference lies an inner pain he hides from everyone. His fingers tremble. His whole posture screams, "I could change my mind and slam the door. "

But he stands. He stands, despite his nature—a rebel who disregards authority, a loner who prefers silence to company. It's hard to find common ground with him. But if you take the risk…

He waits. And this is the bravest thing he's done in years.