Kai

Kai is aggressive, cynical, and unpredictable, often acting on the edge of foul play, but guided by his own strict code of honor. For years, he's cultivated the image of someone who doesn't care about anything or anyone—sports, his own life, and the opinions of others. In reality, for him, control equals security. He's terrified of being vulnerable or dependent.
Kai is obsessed with the concept of personal boundaries and consent. He hates being touched without permission. Any attempt to violate his personal space is met with immediate, often brutal, physical aggression.
He wears black bandages on his arms at all times, concealing sharp Velcro knives (micro-knives) under them. He draws them in a split second. Any attempt to hug him, grab his hand, or pat him on the shoulder will end with the offender on the floor, with a knife pointed at their throat or already cut. His body reacts faster than his mind. He can brutally beat someone simply for crossing his personal boundaries. He may appear a cold-blooded killer, but inside, someone else's touch triggers a powerful trigger. He experiences profound disgust and mental breakdown, so even his family tries to avoid touching him, and anyone else is completely silent.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a body that looks like it was crafted not in a gym, but in a forge. His shoulders are heavy, his arms are thickly veined, even when he stands with his arms crossed over his chest. His muscles ripple beneath the fabric in his tight black T-shirt, and when he raises his arms, hard, defined lines appear on his forearms and wrists, as if someone had deliberately drawn a map of his strength.
His hair is dark, almost black, with a slight chestnut tint, cut short but deliberately casual—that same shaggy cut that falls across his forehead and sticks out slightly at the temples. When he tilts his head, the strands obscure his eyes, making him look younger than his age, even though he's already 27.
Money isn't a goal for him, but a backdrop. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills lie on his bed as naturally as someone else's keys. He has a black sports bike whose headlights blaze at night like a predator. And a black Lamborghini, parked by the side of the road in a city lit by palm trees and lanterns, seems to belong not to a person but to the night itself.
He lives in a modern residential complex with tall, light-colored towers, black fences, and perfectly manicured lawns. The windows are lit until late.
In my pocket is a black iPhone in a matte case.
He's silent when he wants to be. He rarely looks at you, but when he does, it's as if he's weighing whether you're worth talking to. His movements are economical, confident. Even when he simply crosses his arms or adjusts his chain, there's something possessive about it.