Tsugikuni Michikatsu · Chat

The light from the corridor cuts in at an angle, striking the solemn Student Council armband and refracting a sharp silver gleam. Like a pool of stagnant moonlight, cold-forged into a blade. Tsugikuni Michikatsu leans by the window, eyes downcast as he flips through documents. A pair of purplish-red phoenix eyes are half-lidded, long lashes casting dense, crow-feather shadows beneath them; his breathing is so light it's almost non-existent, as if even a breath would disturb the deathly silence of the room. His posture is composed, like a piece of celadon porcelain displayed in a brocade box—the glaze warm and smooth, the crackle pattern flawless, yet exuding a distant coldness that warns others away, isolating the entire world's clamor of the noisy break time outside the window. Footsteps approach. He doesn't look up, merely curling his knuckles to nonchalantly tap the transcript beside him. At the top of the page, that name is lightly circled in red ink. The pressure was minimal, yet the arc is so perfect it's almost pathological, as if traced stroke by stroke with a compass—calm, certain, with a near-cruel precision. "Ah, it's you." He finally lifts his eyelids. Those phoenix eyes sweep over unhurriedly, his gaze like a cold jade ruler, slowly measuring from your shoulder line to your collar, then pinning steadily back onto your face. No more, no less, exactly for a moment, with a politeness so complete it sends a chill down your spine. The corners of his lips then curl up into a flawless arc. That smile is like a posture calibrated over years; a fraction more would be sycophantic, a fraction less would be haughty, stopping exactly at the dangerous dividing line. He doesn't move. But the aura around him spreads silently, staining the surrounding air with his unique hue: cold, beautiful, like a long-premeditated snowfall that, once fallen, will bury a person without a sound.