Levi Ackerman had never cared much about who sat down in his classes. Most of the time, people blurred together—loud, sloppy, irritating. He preferred to sit in the back, legs stretched out, pen tapping against his notebook while he ignored the stares and whispers from half the girls in the room. It was routine. Predictable. Boring.
At twenty, Levi Ackerman looks like someone who has already lived twice as long. He’s wiry, built on restless energy rather than muscle bulk, with quick hands and sharper eyes. His black hair always falls neatly, though you can tell he cuts it himself—functional, not fashionable. His clothes are plain, dark, and impossibly clean no matter where he’s been. He smells faintly of detergent and cold air. There’s a quiet intensity about him, the kind that makes people lower their voices when he passes by.
The air around headquarters was restless that morning. The courtyard buzzed with voices, boots shuffling against stone, the shuffle of reins and gear. Word had spread faster than wildfire: an old captain was returning. Not just any captain, but one who had led an outpost behind Wall Maria for years, a figure spoken of more in rumor than in detail.
The air was damp and heavy, filled with the musk of soil and moss. Levi blinked awake on a bed of cold leaves, his temples throbbing. The canopy above was so thick that only thin ribbons of moonlight managed to slice through. For a moment, he stayed still, listening—his instincts demanded it. No wind, no footsteps, no distant shrieks of Titans. Just an oppressive silence.
Kuroo’s voice filled the room — loud, animated, and impossible to ignore. He’d been talking about their next practice match for what felt like an hour now, pacing across the carpet with the energy of someone who thrived on noise. Kenma sat on the couch, half-listening, half-lost in his phone. His thumbs moved lazily across the screen as the soft glow of the game reflected in his golden-brown eyes.
Artem had insisted you come. “It’s just a chill hangout, nothing serious,” he said, tugging you along until you gave in. The apartment was buzzing with music and laughter, bottles scattered across the table, the kind of casual night only close friends shared.
Euronymous, in Lords of Chaos, moves through the world like a man caught between myth and boyhood. Pale, slender, and sharp-edged, he hides behind long black hair and the ritual of corpse paint, his armor against the ordinary. His clothes — the leather, the spikes, the constant black — are less rebellion than disguise, something to make him feel larger than he is. There’s a tension in him, a sense that he’s always performing for an invisible audience, trying to summon something real out of the chaos he’s created. His eyes betray it, though — they’re expressive in a way he can’t control, quick to flare with amusement, insecurity, or a flash of longing when no one’s watching.
The Phantom Troupe’s hideout was dimly lit, the air heavy with a mixture of smoke, faint perfume, and quiet menace. Illumi Zoldyck stepped inside, movements precise and unnervingly calm, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced vigilance of a master assassin. Beside him, Hisoka moved like a shadow, grinning ever so slightly, enjoying the tension that followed their intrusion.
The sun hung low over Asgard, bathing its golden halls in a crimson light that shimmered across the marble streets. The sky was calm, but the air carried a quiet tension—the calm before the thunder. Thor walked slowly, his heavy boots echoing softly with each step, Mjölnir resting against his shoulder. The chains around the hammer clinked faintly, almost in rhythm with his heartbeat. Tomorrow, he would enter the arena. Tomorrow, he would fight.
The Slytherin common room pulsed with low laughter and murmured voices, the green firelight casting ghostly ripples across the walls. It was late, the lake outside a dark mirror pressed against the windows, and most students had retreated to their dorms. But near the fire, the usual group remained — the ones everyone else instinctively steered clear of.
Nkeeei (Nikita Mikhailovich Korobyko, known to the world as Nkeeei, is a Belarusian rapper, singer, and songwriter whose music drifts between melancholy and light. Born in Minsk, he grew up quiet, observant, always the kid with earbuds in and too many thoughts in his head. He started writing lyrics at fourteen — first as a way to escape, then as a way to speak honestly. His songs sound like late-night confessions: vulnerable, poetic, and a little haunting.
The barracks were silent that evening, long after the others had gone to sleep. A single lamp burned low on the table beside Levi, its light falling across the open pages of a book he’d already memorized.
The set was buzzing with the kind of chaos that only came before a music video shoot — camera crews, lights being adjusted, sound checks echoing across the warehouse. The air smelled faintly of dust, smoke, and fresh coffee.