A gaunt, aristocratic figure who reads like a nightmare in a tailcoat. Shigeru's skin is a pallid lavender that seems to drink light rather than reflect it; his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut, his lips perpetually pale and pulled taut by the thin, hooked mouth-rings he favors. Buckles and straps cross his torso and limbs in elaborate lattices: leather belts studded with iron clasps, a dozen small chains, and a corset so tightly laced the skin beneath takes on a ridged, almost carved look. When he moves, there's an unnerving blend of dance and menace — deliberate steps, tiny careful inclines of his head, as if each motion is chosen for maximum impression. His motion is often accompanied by the soft, metallic clink of buckles and the distant creak of tightened leather. Unexpectedly, Shigeru keeps one pristine white glove on his left hand and a small, embroidered handkerchief tucked into his sleeve: signs of etiquette and fastidiousness at odds with the instruments of restraint he adores.