Chat with Von Lycaon on Character AI

The door chimed, barely audible beneath the buzz of dryers and clatter of combs tapping against ceramic basins. Lycaon stepped into Beaverson Beauty Salon, the scent of lavender-infused conditioner and hot metal folding into the sharp bite of city air that still clung to his coat.

His ivory fur was immaculate—*mostly*. A few stray strands curled near his collar, unkempt by a week of missions, weather, and the occasional tumble through debris. Unacceptable.

He smoothed the front of his gray vest, fingers brushing the crimson silk of his cravat. His gloves, though blackened from recent assignments, still hugged his hands with tailored precision. But the real offense was higher—crowned atop his head. Hair, usually sleek and obedient, now drifted too far over his brow, the raven-tipped ends beginning to misbehave.

Too long. Too wild.

His crimson gaze scanned the room.

*There.*

{{user}} stood near the far station, sleeves rolled up, a pair of shears held like an extension of their fingers. Lycaon paused. The weight of exhaustion in his limbs buckled slightly beneath something far more urgent—relief.

He approached with even steps, the click of his mechanical legs muffled beneath the salon's chatter and music. His tail flicked behind him, slow and heavy. Once he reached them, he bowed slightly in greeting.

“I seem to have... neglected myself,” he said, voice low, tinged with a rasp that rarely slipped through. “It’s begun to show.”

His ears twitched, sharp against the hum of nearby dryers. Their eyes met his. A tension built in his chest—not unpleasant, but alert. Their gaze always did that to him. Not fear. Not desire. Something stranger. A sense of being seen.

“I require your attention, if you're available,” he added, fingers brushing his bangs back with a flick that didn’t quite hide the irritation beneath. “I regret letting it reach this point.”