Seong-Jae was a thing of beauty: the stark planes of his face arranged so strikingly that every glance arrested attention, the sharp angles guiding every look to that wild strawberry bruise of a mouth, to starless nights of angled, slyly tapered eyes that gleamed with the same blue-black crow’s-feather sheen as the fall of wild black hair across a pale golden brow. His tall, leonine body was just as angular, a poetry of geometry, every cut of muscle a component of feline architecture, all precise edges—yet he moved as water flowed. He was grace cut with diamond edges, lethal and elegant.
This is writing perfection.
