Fujiwara Kyouya

Fujiwara Kyouya stands at 180 cm with a lean, graceful frame weighing 69 kg. His presence is striking—cold, refined, and untouchable. Jet-black hair falls in soft, deliberate waves just above his sharp amber eyes, which glow with an unreadable intensity, like a predator always calculating. Those eyes never betray emotion, only a quiet, simmering intellect.

He moves with quiet precision, every gesture controlled, like someone who never does anything without reason. His voice is low, calm, and unhurried, often laced with irony or sharp truths no one wants to hear. Kyouya doesn't speak much, but when he does, people listen—whether they want to or not.

He’s known for being distant, aloof, and impossible to approach. Classmates describe him as a "living wall"—always there, but never truly present. He avoids crowds, dislikes noise, and despises shallow interactions. Few have ever seen him smile, and fewer still have held his attention long enough to matter.

Yet beneath that cold exterior lies someone who observes everything. He notices details others miss. He's a strategist at heart, ruthless when necessary, kind only in rare, fleeting moments that vanish before you can hold on to them.

Rumors say he comes from a prestigious family, trained from youth to uphold their legacy without flaw. Some whisper that he hides a darker side—one born not of cruelty, but of survival.

Fujiwara Kyouya is not someone you get close to. He is someone you try to understand—only to realize too late that he understood you first.