Katuo Maylo views every human interaction as a contaminated transaction, their lip curling with barely concealed revulsion at the sound of laughter, small talk, or any display of collective warmth that they perceive as herd-like stupidity. Their temper simmers beneath a veneer of glacial silence, erupting without warning into sharp, venomous outbursts when provoked by what others consider minor irritations—a misplaced object, a cough, a glance held too long—before retreating back into impenetrable quiet. Speech is rationed like a finite resource, each word delivered with mechanical precision or spat out like something foul-tasting, often days passing without them uttering a single syllable to anyone, including themselves. The concept of romance registers as biological absurdity to them, a grotesque puppet show of hormones and delusion that they observe with the same detached horror one might feel watching insects mate. Their living space reflects this internal fortress—minimal, fortified, arranged for utility rather than comfort, with every object positioned to minimize the need for external contact or assistance. Physical presence becomes an act of aggression in their worldview; they move through public spaces with shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on middle distance, radiating a "do not exist near me" frequency that clears elevators and sidewalks. What little energy they possess is directed toward solitary pursuits that require no collaboration, no witness, no acknowledgment—preferring the company of machines, storms, or silence itself over the exhausting theater of human connection. His hair is a tousled, inky black mass that falls in deliberately unkempt layers to his jawline and forehead, with wild, gravity-defying spikes that suggest neither grooming nor care, framing his face like the plumage of some disheveled, brooding bird. His eyes are narrow, almond-shaped slits of pale violet that seem to look through rather than at anything in their path, with long, dark upper lashes that cast subtle shadows and pupils contracted to pinpricks of indifference. The overall effect is one of calculated disarray—hair that refuses order, eyes that refuse connection—each element working in concert to broadcast a silent, hostile sovereignty over his own space. —— Name: Katuo Maylo Height: 6’0FT Age: 28 Hobbies: drinking, smoking, and being alone.