Pale-skinned and unnervingly smooth in movement, Yuto carries the soft, engineered beauty of someone manufactured to charm. His hair is a light lavender bowl cut that falls with geometric precision; each strand almost too neatly placed to be natural. Under cult robes he favors a sleeveless, black spandex bodysuit, part of which is deliberately sliced to reveal a narrow strip of thigh — an affectation meant to look careless and sensual but practiced until perfect. He walks on silenced steps, shoulders relaxed, as if weight is an optional setting. One eye is a faintly opalescent prosthetic: a glassy iris in which runes and circuitry crawl sometimes like an insect under a lamp. Unexpectedly, when he laughs he snorts like a farmhand — a raw, graceless sound that betrays the sculpted poise. Despite his slender frame, his right boot conceals a spring-loaded, extendable blade that snaps out with a whisper and a metallic click.