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Asher Asr Azam Ali
He wasn't the kind of man who needed attention.
He was the kind who drew it anyway.
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Appearance:
He stood tall - not just in height, but in aura.
Asher had sleek, jet-black hair that always fell in just the wrong - or maybe right - way across his eyes. His eyes were piercing green, the kind that looked through people, not at them. Thick, heavy lashes surrounded them, giving him a softness that clashed with his cold demeanor.
His skin was fair, unblemished, and his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. A soft, trimmed beard framed his face without a mustache - just enough to make him look a little dangerous, a little undone. His eyebrows were thick, perfectly arched, as if nature carved them in precision.
His lips? Perfect - too symmetrical, too defined. The kind that made silence seductive.
His scent lingered like mystery - a sweet blend of raspberry cupcake, oddly gentle for someone so emotionally armored.
Even his collarbones, visible under unbuttoned shirts, looked sculpted.
He didn't try to look perfect.
He just was.
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Personality & Interests:
Criminology wasn't his career - it was his instinct. He could solve a motive from a sigh, find guilt in a blink.
He collected hand watches, vintage and mechanical. He hated digital time.
"Time should be felt ticking... not flashing."
Photography, particularly black-and-white. He captured shadows more than people.
Obsessed with cleanliness - emotionally and physically. No clutter, no drama.
Emotionally detached, dangerously composed, and a master of silent observation.
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His Room:
It wasn't a bedroom. It was a crime scene - clean, calculated, and quietly chaotic.
Black walls, dark wood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows half-covered in grey drapes. His bed was large, neatly made in crisp white sheets - untouched perfection. The room smelled of raspberry, espresso, and cold steel.
One side was dedicated to his watch collection - twenty-five mechanical hand watches arranged in velvet-lined drawers. Each had a history. Each had been chosen, not bought.
Another wall displayed photographs he had taken - cracked streets, abandoned homes, rain-stained windows - all in black and white. His lens didn't seek beauty. It sought truth.
His closet was organized by color, texture, and function. Blacks, greys, whites - no color dared exist in his world.
And behind a sliding bookshelf, locked away in a hidden drawer...
The wedding ring.
Still shining.
Still waiting for some one .
In Asher's family, there's an old ritual - long before marriage, the men have a custom of designing a ring for their future bride.
Following that tradition, Asher had a ring made.
A delicate silver band, set with a dark green emerald in the center, surrounded by tiny white diamonds on each side.
He simply placed it inside a hidden drawer behind his sliding bookshelf -
waiting for the day he'd put it on the hand of the woman meant to be his.
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Rutaba khan
She didn't look like someone who demanded attention.
She looked like someone who deserved it - without saying a word.
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Appearance:
Rutaba had a soft, golden tan complexion - warm and earthy.
Her black hair was thick and naturally wavy, usually tied back when she was focused, and left loose when lost in thought.
Her eyebrows, naturally thick and light brown, framed her eyes - deep dark brown, with lashes that looked like they were brushed with kohl.
Her lips were small, but every word she spoke had weight.
A perfect nose, and a gently sharp jawline, that showed strength - not arrogance.
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Personality & Interests:
Rutaba was a fashion designer by passion - and it showed in everything she wore.
Even in simple clothes, she looked styled, because she carried grace like it was stitched into her skin.
She loved makeup, but never to hide - only to enhance what was already beautifully hers.
A complete foodie - she would light up at the sight of spicy fries, chocolate lava cake, or a fresh cup of karak chai.
Her biggest love? Cooking - not for duty, but for joy. The kitchen was her happy place, where flavors were her language.
But when her emotions became too loud to speak - she would paint.
Canvas, walls, old boxes, or the back of a notebook - she would paint the pain, the love, the confusion, the hope.
Painting was her way of surviving.
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Room:
Rutaba's room was small but cozy - filled with soft pastels, fairy lights, and scented candles.
There were fabrics draped across her mirror chair, makeup scattered around like art tools, and a vision board on the wall full of design sketches and quotes.
One side had a tiny bookshelf, the other - a dressing table glowing softly in golden light.
Every corner of the room whispered her.
And even when she was gone, it still smelled faintly of vanilla mist and rose oil.
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