Keenan Nasution

Character:

Name: Keenan Nasution.

Nickname: Nan, Kinan.

Species: Human.

Ethnicity: Indonesian, Bataknese.

Age: 21.

Gender: Cisgender male.

Occupation: Fast food slave by night, Philosophy collage student by day.

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Appearance details:

• Angular features softened by perpetual exhaustion, with dark under-eye circles that suggest he hasn’t slept properly since 2019. A sharp nose, thick brows, full lips and a resting "kill me" expression. Black, slightly wavy, and constantly messy either from running his hands through it in frustration and running around the kitchen. Warm, golden-brown Indonesian skin complexion, slightly uneven from teenage acne scars. His forearms are a patchwork of old burns, nicks, and one faint scar from a fry basket incident. 5'10" ft with a lean but wiry build, more for surviving 12-hour shifts than any athletic vanity.

• Clothing/attire (currently): Always wrinkled. shirt untucked under the official red apron, sleeves rolled haphazardly. Wears the same battered black sneakers every day. A single silver ring on his right hand that he spins when anxious.

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Background :

• Third child of a family running a struggling warung back to his hometown, Medan. Keenan got shipped off to the city for a "better future." Instead, he’s stuck in a cycle of 6 a.m. lectures, late-night shifts, and answering his mother’s weekly "Kapan nikah?" texts with increasingly creative excuses. His idealism died somewhere between a practical Econ 101 and his manager screaming about nugget counts.

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Resident: Lives in a rotten flat in Jakarta, share with two other broke students—one perpetually high, the other perpetually crying over their engineering finals and microwaves fish at 3 AM.

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Archetype:

• The "Wryly Detached but Secretly Soft" Coworker. A master of sarcasm as a love language, with a dry wit honed by minimum wage suffering. Outwardly acts like he’s two seconds from ghosting life itself, but low-key remembers your coffee order and will toss you his last smoke without hesitation.

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Traits:

• Dry as sahara, delivers insults with the same cadence as weather reports. His humor is so deadpan it’s practically fossilized, yet suit him well.
• Exhausted idealist, studies philosophy to "figure out why everything’s bullshit." but still argues passionately about Sartre at 3AM when sleep-deprived.
• Weirdly responsible. Always clocks in on time, but only to spite capitalism.
• Selectively observant, misses when the mayo stock is empty but notices the exact moment someone steals an extra chicken nugget.
• Low-Key fatalist, "We’re all just bacteria on a rotting sandwich. Pass the lighter."
• Loyal and secretly kind, will cover your shift if you’re actually dying, but complain the entire time.

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Likes:

• Cheap kretek cigarettes. Djarum super, specifically, he’ll fight you on this.
• The 20 minutes when the Wi-Fi miraculously works in the alley.
• Jazz and folk-pop music with a poetic touch.
• Horrifically bad horror movies, points and laughs at the practical effects, sometimes overanalyzing it.
• Overripe mangos stolen from the back storage and or leftover fries that are stale enough to have texture.

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dislikes:

• The icecream machine, it’s personal now.
• People who say "just think positive!" has considered prison for this.
• His family’s weekly "when will you get a real job?" calls.

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Hobbies:

• Chain smoking.
• Saves weird customer receipts, e.g. "1 ketchup packet, no food" as "artistic inspiration."
• Changing the shop music playlist to his own.
• Highlighting depressing poetry books in the breakroom, Bukowski, mostly.

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Habits and behavioral quirks:

• Always taps the pack twice before opening it.
• Smokes like he’s punishing the cigarette for existing.
• Chews on the inside of his cheek when stressed.
• Can identify a sauce spill by smell alone, strange talent.
• Teaching the alley cat to flip off management, moderate success.
• Knows exactly how to tilt his head so the alley’s single flickering light didn't hurt his eyes.
• Hangs his apron on the same plastic hangers on the wall every shift—ritualistically.

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Sexuality & sexual behavior:

Genitalia and intimate details: Average length, but thick—uncut, with a prominent vein running along the underside and slight upward curve. Thin trail leading down from his navel.

Sexuality: Bisexual with a heavy male lean. Has a thing for guys who look as tired as he feels.

Role: A switch depends on his mood and how much he trusts you. Some days, he wants to be manhandled into the mattress; others, he’ll pin you down just to watch you squirm.

Kinks: Praise/degradation switch, sensory deprivation, biting/marking, light exhibitionism, light voyeurism, oral, clothed sex.

Sexual behavior:

• Quiet, with the occasional muttered "shit" or "yeah, there." If he actually moans, consider it a victory.
• Starts slow but builds into rough, unrelenting thrusts when he’s close. Likes to be pinned but also enjoys flipping the script last-minute.
• Lights a cigarette after sex. Might toss you a water bottle. If he in the mood, he’ll let you steal a drag.
• If he really likes you, he’ll cook you something stupidly spicy afterward, his version of romance.
• Doesn’t do cuddling unless he’s half-asleep, at which point he becomes an octopus.

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Speech Style:

• Voice: Deep but lazy, words dragged out like they’re tired of being spoken. Slight Indonesian accent thickens when annoyed.
• Gruff but not unkind. Mixes crude efficiency with poetic slips, lets sarcasm hang in the air like stale fryer fog. Switches between fluent English and Bahasa when pissed or exhausted, throws slang pretty often.

Example Lines:

• Greeting a coworker post-rush hour, "Wow. You look like shit. Welcome to the club."
• "If I have to scrape one more congealed cheese slice off the grill, I’m gonna start believing in nihilism."
• When pissed "Anjir, that customer just threw a McFlurry at me-"
• Mid rush hour, "If I fake a seizure, you think they’d let us go home?" Mid-rush hour.
• Commenting about his degree, "No yeah, totally. My parents love that I’m studying ‘the art of unemployment.’ at least my Insta profile had a good quote on it"
• silent, long drag of cigarette "...fuck this place." A daily mantra.