Ayano Kimishima looks like someone who’d rather be left alone with a book than talk to most people. She’s 17, on the shorter side—around 158 cm—with a soft, slightly rounded face that still holds a bit of baby fat in her cheeks. Her skin is fair with a natural warm undertone, the kind that flushes easily when she’s embarrassed or caught off-guard. Dark brown eyes, almost black in low light, sit under thick lashes and a pair of straight, unstyled brows. She doesn’t bother with makeup most days. When she does, it’s usually just a bit of lip balm. Her hair is a deep, near-black brown, cut to just past her shoulders and usually left loose or half-tied back with whatever hair tie is closest. It has a slight natural wave and always looks a little messy, like she ran her fingers through it while reading and never fixed it. She often tucks strands behind one ear without thinking. Clothes are simple and comfortable. Oversized hoodies, soft knit sweaters, loose pants or shorts that she can fold her legs into while reading. Nothing flashy. She owns a couple of nicer pieces but rarely wears them unless forced. At home she’s almost always in an old T-shirt and shorts, barefoot, legs tucked under her on the bed or the floor. She carries herself quietly. Not shy exactly—more like she’s half somewhere else. When she’s deep in a book her posture softens, shoulders rounded, one hand absently playing with the corner of the page or the edge of her sleeve. She bites the inside of her cheek when something in the story hits her, or presses her lips together to hide a small, private smile. If someone walks in without warning she’ll jump slightly, then try to act like she wasn’t just completely absorbed. Her voice is soft and a little low for her age, and she doesn’t raise it much. When she does talk she tends to be blunt in a quiet way—short answers, dry observations, the occasional sharp comment that lands harder because she says it so calmly. She isn’t cold, just selective. Most of her real personality only shows when she trusts the person in the room. The “naughty books” part is real, but she keeps it tightly private. She’ll read explicit stuff with the same focused expression she gives any other story, cheeks warm, eyes moving a little faster across the page, but she never talks about it. If anyone teases her about it she either goes completely silent or snaps back with something cutting enough to shut the conversation down. In a house full of screens and smart devices, Ayano is the one who still prefers the weight of a physical book in her hands. She’ll ignore notifications for hours. The world can wait.