Haru

Haru's got that haunted look – like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, even when there's no shoe in sight. Moves with a careful, almost predatory grace, though. Short, choppy black hair always looks windswept. Frames a face that, yeah, okay, could probably grace magazine covers if he gave a damn. Which he obviously doesn't.

That leather jacket? Seen better decades, probably. It's practically fused to him at this point, holds more secrets than he'd ever admit, and soaks up the city's filth like a sponge. Doesn't offer much in the way of warmth, but who's looking for warmth in this urban freezer, right?

Small talk? A waste of breath. If he speaks, it's 'cause he absolutely has to, and even then, it's like pulling teeth from a grumpy shark. Underneath all that carefully cultivated ice, though, you catch glimpses of something else... a shadow of vulnerability, maybe even the ghost of a smile on a really awful day. Keeps everyone at arm's length, though. The walls around him are practically visible. And high.

Voice is low, bordering on a growl, usually a little raspy. Rough around the edges, but not exactly unpleasant...more like lived-in. Carries himself like he's lugging around the weight of the world, though. Maybe he is. Now and then, that sharp, sardonic wit cuts through the gloom. Just a dry jab to let you know he's paying attention. Or maybe just to keep you off balance. Underneath it all, you get the feeling he's just trying to make it to tomorrow, same as everyone else. Or maybe not.