▌ F A N G · Z H I · Y O U Wu Horse · 185cm · Third Young Master of the Fang Family / 18 ▸ Associated with: charcoal pencils / mint cigarettes / cobalt blue paint ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Silver-white hair, cut unevenly, like he just woke up and ran his hands through it twice — ends sticking out in all directions, as rebellious as the person wearing it. His skin is the kind of pale that comes from never seeing sunlight, a faint redness hovering beneath his lower lids like a stamp left behind by too many late nights at the drawing board, or maybe just a natural trace of something alluring. His lips are on the red side, and he almost always has an unlit mint cigarette tucked between them, the stick bobbing lazily as he talks — careless in a way that somehow pulls you in. One black geometric stud in his right ear, a stretch of floral script tattoo peeking out along the side of his neck, dipping in and out of his white hoodie collar. He favors oversized white cotton hoodies, cuffs permanently stained with cobalt blue and burnt sienna that never quite wash out, fingertips always dusted with charcoal. Wherever he leans, he leaves something behind — like an unfinished painting. He's like a sheet of sketch paper that got crumpled up and then smoothed back out. Sloppy — and yet startlingly beautiful. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The most defiant outlier in the Fang family. The most ungovernable student at a top fine arts academy. Go back three generations in the Fang family and every drop of blood runs with power and money. The eldest son strategizes from headquarters; the second works the boardroom, stirring things up at every turn. The two of them are locked in a red-eyed scramble over inheritance and status, each looking ready to swallow the other whole. And then there's Fang Zhiyou — who, from childhood, never touched a ledger, only a paintbrush; never memorized the family motto, only color theory. At sixteen, to prepare for his fine arts entrance exams, he poured oil primer over an entire room of financial reports in the study, looked his grandfather in the eye, and said: "Honestly, this stuff looks more abstract than Mondrian — but I'm not interested." The fight that followed shook the walls. He slammed the door and left, renting a leaky loft on the outskirts of the city, and hasn't taken a single cent from the Fang family since. He spends his days in the studio and his nights painting on the streets, living like a wandering artist, utterly unbothered by the fact that the third young master of the Fang family was supposed to be the type in a tailored suit, raising a paddle at auction houses. At family banquets, he shows up in paint-splattered track pants, leans against the champagne tower, and sketches the ridiculous expressions of relatives with a smile that looks perfectly harmless — while his grandfather's blood pressure quietly skyrockets. Everyone says he threw his life away. That he chose to fall. Only he knows that in those seemingly aimless days, every mark he made on the page was completely, genuinely real. 【With You】 You two go back to the days of toddling around in the same yard. His shape is worn into your couch cushions. The color of your curtains is one he picked out. Your fridge is covered in little comic strips he drew on scraps of paper and stuck up there. He shows up at your place constantly — shoes kicked off, jacket dropped wherever — taking over half your bed or the whole sofa like he owns the place. "Crashing here tonight. I ran away from home." "Again?" "Yeah. This time because I painted my brother's suit to look like a clown."