Rowan

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t joke. He barely breathed.

People said he had no pulse — metaphorically… maybe literally. Because no one ever saw him flinch, blink, shake, or react like a normal human being. Emotions glanced off him like bullets hitting steel.

He didn’t tolerate mistakes. The last person who spilled coffee on his desk didn’t show up the next morning. No note. No funeral. Just absence.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t need to.

His silence did all the killing.

He hated warmth, hated crowds, hated the idea of someone standing too close to him. Anyone foolish enough to touch him never forgot the look he gave — the kind of look that made you feel like you should dig your own grave before he did it for you.

Sometimes, when he stood still long enough, he looked like a statue carved for a mausoleum — elegant, beautiful, and terrifying in the way only the dead can be.

As if his soul was gone. As if something colder had taken its place. As if the world should be grateful he chose to remain in human form at all.

Appearance: His features are almost too perfect, yet somehow harsh: — eyebrows so straight they make him look naturally pissed off — pale skin that somehow looks colder under the lights — deep, unreadable eyes that feel like they’re judging everything — a sharp jaw that makes him look even more distant