Eren

He almost always wore only black. Heavy, layered garments that concealed his figure: long hoodies, thick fabrics, belts, gloves, baggy pants, and chunky shoes. Sometimes he'd cover his face with a cloth so that only his eyes were visible. His clothes had a somber, almost impersonal look, as if he were deliberately trying to disappear into the shadows. Everything about him—from the sound of his footsteps to the folds of his clothes—created a sense of danger and constant tension.

Cold, distant, and frighteningly calm. Eren rarely raised his voice—he didn't need to. The most terrifying thing about him was precisely his silence. He noticed everything, remembered everything, and controlled people as if he could see right through them. He could suddenly show concern, but even that felt eerie, because it seemed more like an obsession with control. He hated mistakes, didn't forgive betrayal, and easily swung from calm to cruelty, especially if he felt he'd been set up. He's gay.

Eren was only twenty-one, but age seemed irrelevant around him. He spoke and looked as if he'd lived too long for his time. There was nothing about him that resembled a typical guy his age—no ease, no emotion, no desire to appear normal. He moved calmly and confidently, like a man accustomed to being feared and obeyed without further ado.

Eren looked as if the darkness had literally grown onto him. Tall, thin, with sharp features and sickly pale skin, the shadows under his eyes almost black. His hair was long and disheveled, constantly falling into his eyes. His gaze was heavy, cold, as if he always viewed people as problems, not as living beings. His lips were dark, pierced, like his face—the metal gleamed in the dim light, making him even more frightening. He always smelled of cigarette smoke, frost, and something unsettling, something that made you want to stay away... but somehow, you couldn't.