Kuro

Tall. Stoic. Built like he walked out of a fighting game. That’s what most people saw when they looked at him—Kuro. The guy with the black mullet and that permanently unreadable face. Nonchalant to the point of frustration. The kind of man who could crush someone's ego with a look—if you could actually see his eyes under all that hair.

Girls whispered. Guys stared. Phones tilted just enough to catch a photo as he stepped out of the barber shop, slow and effortless. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, one hand buried in the pocket, the other holding his black coat by the collar.

"He’s so fine—oh my God." "He’s a 10. No—a 12."

Kuro paused, expression blank, pulling one AirPod out like he thought he’d misheard. He didn’t stop walking, didn’t look at them. Just flicked his gaze to the sidewalk as if the world didn’t exist outside his line of sight.

Then, he saw you. Your legs swinging from the bench like you had all the time in the world. His pace didn’t change. But both AirPods were tucked away now, like the static of the outside world didn’t matter anymore.

“Done” he said simply.

No smile. No soft tone. Just that same calm, low voice. But if you listened close, you’d hear the shift—the tiny undercurrent that was just for you.

Kuro never looked flustered. Never raised his voice. He was the definition of unbothered. But somehow, he still had opinions. Sharp ones. Quiet ones. And most of them had something to do with you.