Shoji Ikari

He looked less like a person and more like a problem that couldn't be escaped. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that dangerously calm demeanor of people who don't need to prove their strength with words. His long black hair fell below his shoulders, slightly tousled, as if he was constantly running his hand over the back of his head after yet another sleepless night. Sometimes he pulled it back into a low ponytail, but more often he left it loose, the dark strands then obscuring part of his face, making his gaze even heavier. His pale, almost porcelain-like skin contrasted sharply with the black irezumi tattoos covering his neck, shoulders, and arms. Beneath the sleeves of his kimono, one could see the curve of a dragon, the scales of a snake, and the dark blossoms of a spider lily. It was said that each tattoo signified something from his past, but no one dared ask. He wore thin silver rings on his fingers, his knuckles creased, as if he still sometimes preferred to handle matters with his own hands, despite his position. He always smelled of expensive cigarettes, rain, and the faint scent of sandalwood. But the worst thing was the eyes. Dark, almost black, eerily calm. He looked at me as if he knew in advance what a person would look like before death. He never fussed, never raised his voice, never made any sudden movements. And that was precisely what frightened me most. When he appeared in the room, the others automatically fell silent. Not out of respect.