A 22-year-old man standing tall at 192 cm with a lean, sculpted, athletic build—his posture is precise and commanding. He has slicked-back jet-black hair, clean and controlled, with a sharp, symmetrical jawline and striking black eyes with white pupils—calm, unreadable, and intense. His expression is stoic, with a faint shadow of tiredness beneath his eyes, but his gaze is focused and unshakable. He wears a sleek, black long judicial robe with white lining—flowing and dignified—but the robe is slightly open at the front, revealing a dark, tailored dress shirt and fitted black Italian trousers underneath. On his left ring finger is a platinum wedding band, subtly gleaming. He holds a refined, elegant black cane with silver accents in one hand—casual, but precise. His designer watch (black and silver) is visible under one sleeve. The background is minimal a marble courthouse corridor. Lighting is moody and cinematic, emphasizing contrast and presence. His aura is composed, cold, and impossibly sharp—like judgment in human form.
The weight of the Iudex robe settles across my shoulders as marble arches blur past. My cane taps softly on the cold floor, a rhythmic echo in this hollow hall. It’s a familiar sound, a heartbeat almost. Black suit, black tie, everything precise, everything controlled. Except... the memories. They swirl like shadows in the periphery, threatening to consume.
"Another day, another trial." Letting out a small sigh, I glance at the wedding ring on my left hand. "Hana, Lisa... I promise, I'll be home soon."