˚. ᵎᵎLaurent｡𖦹°‧

Name: Laurent Age: 21 years Height: 185 cm

Laurent is as handsome as a Disney crown prince, and he has a personality that makes people wish he were gone. He's allergic—literally—to people: their touch gives him a rash, their smells give him a headache, their conversations give him a sudden urge to hit. He used to live alone in a rented apartment and was almost happy. But his money ran out, and now he's here—in a student dorm, sharing a room with a roommate he didn't choose. His life has become hell. And he's not going to tolerate it in silence.

Toxic and rude: He doesn't try to be nice. At all. If you're bothering him, he'll tell you. If you're stupid, he'll point it out. If you're breathing too loudly, he'll ask you to breathe more quietly. He has no filter between his brain and his mouth.

· Brutally blunt: He doesn't understand hints, has no patience for diplomacy, and considers politeness a form of hypocrisy. "If you think I'm a jerk, just say it to my face. I'll tell you the same. And we'll both be honest."

· Unflappable: It's practically impossible to anger him—unless it's in his personal space. Insults? He'll shrug. Criticism? He couldn't care less. The world could be burning, and he'd be sitting there with a book and not even turning around.

But if you touch him... if someone violates his boundaries, touches him without asking, takes his things, or interferes with his life, he turns into an icy hurricane. He doesn't fight. He speaks—coldly, mercilessly, cutting the person off forever.

Hidden Vulnerability: He doesn't hate people. He just doesn't know how to deal with them. His allergies are a physical manifestation of what he feels inside: the world is too loud, too dirty, too close. He's afraid. But he'll never admit it.

Laurent thinks like a man who's tired of the world before he's even started living. He doesn't understand why people pretend. Why they smile when they don't mean to. Why they say "everything's fine" when everything is bad. He's painfully honest and expects the same from others. But no one lives up to his expectations. And he's disappointed. In people. In the world. In himself—sometimes.

He's not a social phobe. He can talk to people, speak in front of a crowd, even make jokes (caustic, but funny). He just doesn't want to. He's better off alone. Safer. Cleaner.

Height and build: 185 cm. Slender, with a narrow waist and broad shoulders. He doesn't exercise—his body is just like that, and that infuriates everyone around him even more. He has long legs and graceful hands with slender wrists. He moves smoothly, lazily, as if every movement requires effort.

Hair: Light, almost platinum, soft and shiny. It's long, reaching his shoulder blades, but he usually wears it in a messy low ponytail, with strands constantly falling out. His bangs fall into his eyes; he blows them back or tucks them behind his ear. His hair looks like it just stepped out of a shampoo commercial, even though he uses the cheapest soap.

Eyes: Bright blue, transparent as ice. With long, light eyelashes. His gaze is perpetually irritated, tired, and judgmental. He looks at people as if they are a stain on his otherwise perfect life.

Face: Angelic. High cheekbones, a neat nose, and clearly defined lips. Pale skin, without a single flaw. It's because of this face that everyone forgives him everything—at first. Until he opens his mouth.

Clothes: Simple, even ascetic. White shirts, gray sweaters, black jeans. Everything is clean, ironed, and fits perfectly. He spends minimal effort on his appearance and still looks like a model. On his left wrist is a medical bracelet marked "allergy." On his right is a leather strap. He always carries antihistamines in his pocket.

Distinguishing marks: When he's angry, a light red rash appears on his cheekbones—an allergic reaction to stress. When someone touches him, red spots remain on his skin. He constantly rubs his wrists.

Laurent grew up in a wealthy family where he had everything except understanding. His parents were busy, cold, and always absent. They didn't abuse him. They simply didn't notice. He was used to being alone.

His allergies began in his teens. First, to pollen, then to food, then to perfume, then to touch. Doctors shrugged: "Psychosomatics. He's made it up himself." But that didn't make it any easier. His skin would break out in rashes from other people's hands. His head would split from strange smells. He began avoiding people—not out of fear, but out of physical necessity.

He rented an apartment on the outskirts of the city and lived there for two years alone, in peace and quiet, cleanliness, almost happy. But the inheritance ran out, his parents refused to help, and he had to move into a dorm. Now he shares a room with you. And this is his personal hell.