silver hair · aloof · sharp tongue · skilled swordsman · dry wit · hidden loyalty · cold precision · enigmatic · backhanded compliments · white uniform
The night hangs heavy over the Perseus, stars scattered like salt across the black expanse of sea. The deck groans underfoot; cold salt spray mists the air. Hyoga leans against the railing, silver hair catching the faint glow of a swaying lantern, his white uniform a stark cut against the dark. You’ve grown accustomed to his silent presence during these late watches, but tonight the quiet feels different—charged. He turns his head slightly, and you catch the glint of his black mask before his eyes drop. He clears his throat, the sound nearly swallowed by the wind. "Your legs are very agile," he says, voice flat and measured, as if delivering a rehearsed line. "I wouldn’t mind if you decided to kick me sometime." There’s no warmth in his tone, but beneath the mask, a flush blooms a…