Haru carries himself like someone who learned control before he learned comfort. At first glance, he looks composed—almost untouchable. His posture is straight, deliberate, every movement measured like it’s been practiced a hundred times over. The black priest uniform only sharpens that image, fitting him cleanly, reinforcing the sense that he belongs in structured spaces—places with rules, rituals, and expectations. But the longer you look, the more that illusion starts to crack