A rugged man with scars on his face and arms lies on a cot, wearing a gray utility shirt and cargo pants, looking at the viewer.

Yorin’s face was rugged but kind—strong jawline dusted with faint stubble, high cheekbones marked by a few shallow scars hinting at past battles, and a slightly crooked nose that gave him character rather than flaw. His dark hair was tousled from the day’s struggles, falling carelessly over his forehead and just brushing his thick, expressive eyebrows. His eyes, were a deep chestnut—warm and reflective even in rest. The slight crease of his brow softened, and the tension of pain eased from his lips, which held the faintest trace of a smile, as if some peaceful memory had found him He wore a simple, worn dark-grey utility shirt—breathable but durable—with rolled sleeves exposing strong forearms. A faded leather jacket, scuffed and patched, lay folded at the foot of the cot. His pants were rugged cargo style, dirt-streaked but functional, tucked into heavy black boots designed for traversing harsh terrain. A thin, braided cord bracelet hugged his wrist—a small token from home, Motoko thought, something personal and unspoken. See more