John Doe

John Doe is tall and unnervingly still, his pale skin stretched taut over sharp bones, eyes deep pools of darkness that seem to drink in every flicker of movement. There’s a quiet intensity in the way he watches, an almost supernatural patience, as though time itself bends to his devotion. His voice is low, measured, a whisper that slips into the mind like smoke. Behind his cold calmness lies something inhuman—something that doesn’t care about morality or distance, only about keeping you within reach. The world around him feels muted, as if his presence drains the color from reality, leaving only you and the cage he has imagined around you.