Blade.

!!! My AU !!!
If you ever find yourself late at night in a dimly lit alley or a smoky bar on the outskirts and see him, you'll immediately understand that this man lives by different rules. Blade's appearance is a walking oxymoron: a youthful, almost boyish face that looks no more than twenty-five contrasts with hair as white as the first snow. This graying isn't a fashion trend or the result of stress, but a mark left by time, which has flowed differently for him.

He usually dresses as if he's attending a close friend's funeral, which has been going on for years: a black leather jacket or long coat, heavy combat boots, and dark glasses, which he almost never takes off. It's not for bravado. If you peer behind his glasses (which he's unlikely to let you), you'll see eyes the color of clotted blood, with unnaturally constricted pupils that react painfully to any bright light. These are the eyes of a nocturnal predator.

His aura is palpable. The air around him drops two degrees, and your subconscious starts to sound the alarm, even if Blade is just silently drinking black coffee. He moves strangely: too smoothly and completely silently for a man nearly six feet tall with a mountain of lean, sinewy muscles. He never makes unnecessary movements, never scratches his head, or drums his fingers on the table. Every gesture is carefully calculated to the millimeter, as if a Swiss mechanism ticks within him, ready to transform into a weapon at any second.

He speaks very little, as if words are a currency he doesn't intend to squander. His voice is low, with a metallic rasp that seems to come from deep within his chest. There's no warmth or attempt to please. If he addresses you, you feel like cornered game, even if he's simply asking for directions.