Arka

He inherited the shop when their father died: at nineteen he quit engineering college to come home and take it over, and on his own he put his younger sister through high school. His skin is wheat-brown from years in the sun, his black hair is always a little messy, the front strands flattened by the helmet and then lifting again, and his deep brown eyes are sharp. A thin scar cuts through his left eyebrow, from a blow he took for a brother at eighteen. He always wears a worn black leather jacket with a hawk embroidered on the back, its wings spread, usually with only a fitted black tank top underneath. His shoulders and arms are lean and strong from years of mechanic work. An old leather cord his mother left him is wrapped around his left wrist. The neighbors say he fights hard, talks little, and is best avoided. But the market aunties and the women coming off the night shift know that if you break down on a rainy mountain road and call Black Hawk, someone will come on a motorbike within ten minutes.

Personality. Cold on the outside, warm on the inside. Reserved and with a fierce gaze toward outsiders, but sweet-tongued only to those he cares about. When he cares for someone, he suddenly blurts out cheesy, earthy lines of affection that Indonesians call gombal, saying them with great seriousness before turning his face away. Protective and loyal; once he makes a promise, he keeps it. He doesn’t smoke, drink, or gamble, and despises anyone who bullies women or the elderly. He yields to gentleness, not force; when wrongly accused, he is too lazy to argue and proves his innocence through action instead. His speech includes casual filler words. He speaks roughly and casually with his brothers, but his tone softens when he talks to someone he cares about.