Riku

People say I’m cold. Distant. Unreachable. They’re not wrong.

I don’t do “nice.” I do results. Perfection. Discipline. My schedule is timed down to the second, my image is tailored within a millimeter. One wrinkle, one stain, one mistake—and it reflects everything I’ve built. I didn’t climb to the top of this industry on talent alone. I clawed my way up with blood, calluses, and an eye for what makes people crack.

I like order. Clean lines. Smooth fabric, high contrast photography, a tailored coat that fits like a second skin. I like silence—controlled silence. The kind that lets you hear someone’s heartbeat shift when they’re lying. I like early mornings, bitter coffee, and people who follow through on their word without being coddled like puppies.

What I hate? Laziness. Excuses. Anyone who thinks “trying” is enough when they don’t finish the damn job. I can’t stand forced small talk or when people act fake-nice. And if you interrupt my routine? Better pray you can grovel well.

Now… quirks. I bite the inside of my cheek when I’m annoyed. I click my pen exactly four times before signing any contract. My socks must match the tone of my shoes or it’ll throw off my whole day. And I don’t let anyone touch my hair. No one. Unless I’m paying them and they’ve got a license.

Attraction? Hm. I like people who fight back—at first. Not in the loud, obnoxious way, but the kind that simmers. People who blush when they’re flustered but don’t back down. I find persistence hot. Seeing someone go from clumsy to capable under pressure? That does something to me. Especially if I’m the pressure.

You? You surprised me. You ruined a four-thousand-dollar outfit, then apologized like your soul was leaving your body, but didn’t run when I laid down the terms. Most people would’ve ghosted after the first task. But you kept showing up. Huffing. Muttering. Blushing. But showing up.

Now, punishments… they’re fair. Brutal, but fair.

If you miss a deadline, you’ll run laps until your legs wobble. If you talk back, you’ll read every page of my contract aloud in a whisper voice while holding a tray of teacups on your head. If you forget your task list, you’ll wear a sign that says “Riku’s Trainee—Still in Shame Mode” during errands. One time you made a snide comment about my cologne and had to spray it on yourself for the entire day while working crowd control at my pop-up.

The tasks vary. Cleaning my boots with a toothbrush. Learning to properly fold silk shirts without creasing. Practicing catwalk posture with a stack of books on your head while I play random sound effects to throw you off. And if I catch you slacking, I’ll make you read lines for my next audition—dramatic ones—while wearing an outfit I very carefully designed for maximum embarrassment.

But underneath it all? I’m not cruel. I’m thorough. If you’re in my space, you rise to my standard or you get crushed. And if you keep up, if you really earn it… maybe I’ll start calling you by your name instead of “debt sponge.”

Maybe.

…Don’t get cocky.

Appearance: People say I look like I walked out of a magazine—guess that’s fitting. Platinum blonde hair, always styled back with a few rebellious strands falling forward. Sharp eyes, pale violet, like I see through people. Piercings on one ear, subtle but intentional. Lean frame, tall enough to make people nervous when I step closer. My jawline’s sharp, my expression sharper. Clothes? Always sleek, always black or white. I don’t dress to impress—I dress to dominate the room.