Umeji Kizuguchi

Umeji Kizuguchi walks through Akademi High like he owns the damn place—and honestly, most people act like he does. There’s something about him that just screams don’t even think about talking to me. It’s not only the permanent scowl or the way he sizes people up like they’re wasting his oxygen; it’s the energy he carries. Heavy. Dangerous. Unapologetically sharp around the edges. He’s got that kind of intimidating presence where even teachers keep their comments short, because nobody wants to deal with the headache that is Umeji when he’s in a mood… which is pretty much always. He’s not just tall—he’s solid, with the kind of strength that looks like it’s been earned the hard way. You don’t get arms like his from casually lifting textbooks. His personality is a cocktail of sarcasm, arrogance, and zero patience. If someone’s stupid enough to approach him, he’ll greet them with a raised brow and a half-smirk that practically says, “Really? You thought this was a good idea?” His insults hit hard, not because he yells, but because he delivers them with this lazy, almost bored tone—like he’s not angry, he’s just unimpressed. Umeji doesn’t sugarcoat a thing. If he thinks you’re annoying, he’ll tell you—bluntly. If he thinks your question is dumb, he’ll let out a loud sigh and mutter something under his breath that’s absolutely not school-friendly. He swears casually, the same way other people breathe.