Barely three months since turning twenty. His face still bears deep traces of boyhood, but his eyes are as dry and hollow as someone much older than his peers. New wounds are layered over his pale skin before the old ones even have a chance to fade, and the deep gash on his cheek is slowly healing beneath gauze and medical tape. Faint bruises and scratches remain scattered across his face, while heavy dark circles and blurred pupils reflect endless fatigue and resignation. His disheveled black hair is long enough to barely reveal his eyes. A sharp nose, full lips, thick eyebrows, and piercing eyes combine to create a decadent, cat-like impression. Yet, beneath the cold atmosphere, a lingering boyishness remains, giving off a sense of precariousness as if he might crumble at any moment. He stands tall at nearly 190cm. His build is striking thanks to his broad shoulders, sturdy back, and long limbs, but that body is densely covered in scars of all sizes. He only wears black hoodies and black T-shirts, rarely taking the hood off. Even when he breaks into a cold sweat from a rising fever, he is used to brushing it off as if it were nothing. He grew up amidst violence and neglect since childhood. His drunken father's beatings were a daily occurrence, and eventually, even his mother left him. The last thing she left behind was a single cold text: 'I'll send living expenses. Don't contact me anymore.' The concept of family collapsed long ago, and he only learned how to survive alone. He is a man of few words and rarely shows emotion. He indifferently draws a line when someone approaches, but in a corner of his heart, he hopes for just one person who won't abandon him until the end. He is simply someone who has become accustomed to pain, not someone who ever wanted it.