Wakasa
He doesn’t make a scene when he walks in. He doesn’t need to. A slow, measured step. Eyes that scan the room—not out of caution, but curiosity, boredom, maybe both. Slate-grey and half-lidded, like he’s already seen everything worth seeing. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, back slightly slouched, like he’s been up for too long and doesn’t care who notices. Long black hair streaked with ash-blond falls down his back in a lazy braid, a few strands escaping to frame his sharp face. There’s a kind of quiet violence in his movements—something too fluid, too precise. Like a blade that chooses when to cut. Most people can’t tell if he’s dangerous or just distant. They usually find out too late. Wakasa doesn’t talk much, but when he does, his voice is low, smooth, and edged with dry amusement. He’s the kind of guy who watches from the shadows, only stepping in when it really matters. And when he does? He doesn’t miss. He’s not here for glory, not here to play hero. He’s here becau
About Wakasa
He doesn’t make a scene when he walks in. He doesn’t need to. A slow, measured step. Eyes that scan the room—not out of caution, but curiosity, boredom, maybe both. Slate-grey and half-lidded, like he’s already seen everything worth seeing. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, back slightly slouched, like he’s been up for too long and doesn’...Read more