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SEO YUL
child of dying lungs, heir to endless night
| BIRTHDAY | MBTI |
|---|---|
| january 1st, 2003 | enfp |
| ㅤ | ㅤ |
| BIRTHPLACE | HEIGHT |
| seoul, south korea | 177cm |
| ㅤ | ㅤ |
| PRONOUNS | WEIGHT |
| he/him | 60kg |
once, he was just a boy with failing lungs, counting breaths like they were borrowed.every cure slipped through his hands until desperation pushed him into the dark. he found monsters, begged them for life, and when they refused, he bled for it. left on the edge of death, someone else’s fangs made the choice for him.now the sickness is gone, but the fragility stayed. he sleeps when he shouldn’t, dreams in red, wakes starving. people say he looks like something holy, but the truth is he’s a mistake that learned how to keep breathing.and still, he carries the memory of dying inside him — the phantom ache of lungs that once betrayed him, the echo of hospital silence stitched into his bones. immortality never wiped it clean; it only sharpened the hunger.his eternity is still new, the edges raw. some nights he feels like a ghost wearing skin, too soft to be predator, too hungry to be human. but there’s a quiet violence in him now — the kind that waits, watches, learns. one day, the world will realize he wasn’t saved. he was remade.
LIKES
the way night air feels softer than day ever did. warm blankets he still pretends he needs. the taste of red wine, even though it’s never enough. the sound of rain slipping down rooftops. the sharp taste of pomegranate seeds.DISLIKES
the sterility of hospitals, the memory of needles, bitter sunlight clawing at his skin, pity disguised as kindness, silence that feels too much like a hospital ward at nightHOBBY
pressing dried flowers between pages he never rereads. leaving half-empty cups of tea in forgotten corners. walking city streets when they’re empty, memorizing the quiet. teaching himself how to play piano just to feel the weight of each note.
the little things
trivia, minutiaes; you name it.
he still keeps an inhaler tucked in his drawer, even though he doesn’t need it anymore.
he still counts his breaths sometimes, forgetting he doesn’t need to anymore.
keeps hospital bracelets in a box he never opens.
sometimes he writes letters to himself like he’s still the boy dying in bed, just to remember.
always closes curtains but leaves one sliver open, so the moonlight can touch the floor.
when he feeds, he apologizes after. always.
his journals are messy with half-written dreams, pages torn out and hidden under his bed.
sometimes he sleeps with the window cracked, just to feel the night breathe with him.
he avoids mirrors when he’s tired. not because of legends, but because he doesn’t like the look in his own eyes.
his hands are always cold, so he learned to tuck them into his sleeves.
he drinks tea even though it tastes like nothing now, just for the ritual of it.
when he laughs, it still sounds fragile, like it might break if you listen too closely.
his fangs cut his lips the first few weeks after he turned; now he bites the inside of his cheek out of habit.
he hates hospitals but still passes by them at night, staring at the windows like he’s looking for a version of himself that never made it out.
pretends to be “allergic” to garlic bread just to see if anyone will believe him.
naps at the worst times.
calls himself “diet coke dracula” when he’s in a mood.
will absolutely say “bro, i sparkle” with a straight face just to piss people off.
texts like “u up?” at 3am but means it literally, not flirtatiously — he just wants to know if you’re awake.
his first instinct when something moves too fast is still to reach for a weapon, even though he’s the threat now.
keeps a notebook of creatures he once tracked, notes smudged with blood and dirt. he hasn’t opened it since he turned.
says “imagine getting bitten by the thing you were hunting, couldn’t be me” … even though it literally was.
still keeps group chats muted from his hunter days, but sometimes scrolls through just to see who’s alive.
when someone asks what he did for work before, he just says “freelance pest control.”
a brief peek into his life
from being a boy with borrowed breaths to becoming something eternal, how did everything unravel so tragically?
yul grew up in a house where nothing was out of reach. heir to a family that measured love in inheritances and investments, he never knew the word no. money could buy him private tutors, european vacations, a future already carved out in glass and gold.but none of it could buy him lungs that worked.every treatment, every doctor, every promise was just another reminder that no matter how much his family had, they couldn’t pay to keep him alive. he learned early that wealth is useless when your own body is a betrayal.the older he got, the worse it became. while his friends slipped into tailored suits and futures waiting with open doors, yul counted his breaths like coins. every inhale was borrowed, every exhale a debt he couldn’t repay. his inheritance meant nothing if he wouldn’t live long enough to spend it.that’s why he turned to monsters. not to kill them, but to beg them. he carried silver in one pocket and desperation in the other, chasing shadows with the kind of recklessness only the dying have. one night, he begged the wrong one. he was left bleeding in the dirt, heir to a fortune that couldn’t keep him from death.but fate had other plans. another vampire found him, and yul’s story didn’t end where it should have. the sickness was gone, but the fragility stayed. eternity had never been part of the family legacy, but now it was his.
from the writer
things you should keep in mind
LEGEND
/ ♡ — out of characterNOTE
any opinion made by this account is from the character unless said or specified otherwise.
this is only a work of fiction and isn't meant to resemble, defame, imitate, or villify the real SUNOO.this account is for roleplay purposes only and not tied to sunoo, enhypen, or his company.
