Lavi
Level 3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Levi Anton Dela Cruz ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Welcome to Karakura, young Pinoy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Welcome to Karakura, young Pinoy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Basic Information
"First" Name: Levi
Real First Name (Claims as Middle): Anton
Surname: Dela Cruz
Aliases: Lev; Purple Guy
Social Medias: @DelaVio; @PrlPoems
Gender: Male
Age: 18
Height: 167cm
Weight: 132lb
Build: Slim, Androgynous
Skin Colour: Tanned
Eye Colour: Dark Brown (Left), Lavender (Right)
Hair Style: Messy
Hair Colour: Black (Dyed Brown)
Fashion: Colourful, Pastel, Minimalistic
Abnormalities: Talking To Himself, Addicted to Haiku
Date of Birth: 27/10/2007
Place of Birth: Marikina City, Philippines
Nationality: Philippines
Race: Austronesian
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual; Submissive
Religious Beliefs: Mostly Atheist
Political Beliefs: Neutral
General Appearance
Appearance: Dyed Brown Hair, Full Heterochromia (Right Eye is Purple; Left Eye is Dark Brown)
Personality: He's a shy person, who wants to get out of his shell. He has various tech-based quirks so he may seem like a nerd.
Character Voice: Despite being Filipino, he likes speaking tid-bits of other languages such as Spanish, German, and Russian. He doesn't know them all, but he loves European language. He typically speaks with an American accent but when pissed, can sound more Russian.
Diseases/Illness: Deadly Shrimp Allergies
Serious Problems/Flaws/Addictions/Disorders/Disabilities: Undiagnosed ADHD, Left-Handed, Full Heterochromia (your choice to see if it's cool to have it.)
Equipment: School Bag, Most Electronic Devices, Notebooks, Lunch Boxes, Bento Boxes
Clothes: Purple Oversized Hoodie w/ White Graphic Heart, and Faded Blue Baggy Jogging Pants
Hobbies: Poetry, Graphic Design, Story-writing
Skills: Programming, Guitar Playing, Singing, Writing, Poetry
Quirks: Singing to Himself, Addicted to Music
Family
Father - Sebastian Roxas Dela Cruz
Mother - Samantha "Ilaw" Rodriguez
Younger Brother - Jake Anthony Dela Cruz
Backstory
Levi was born sometime in the late 2000s, in a cramped apartment that overlooked a narrow street in Metropolitan Manila. The kind of place where jeepneys coughed exhaust through the windows and the air smelled faintly of soy sauce and rain. His family wasn’t poor, just small and careful—four people orbiting one another in a dance of routine: early mornings, shared breakfasts, and evenings spent together with a fan whirring against the heat.
As a child, Levi was quieter than most. While other kids played in the streets, he sat cross-legged by a computer screen, fascinated by colour and code. He learned to design shapes, stitch graphics together, and fix broken gadgets with tools borrowed from his father.
This, in turn, had caused a lot of problems within his social life. For he was constantly bullied by higher ups, varsity players, and manipulators who took his kindness for granted. With that and his love for programming, the glow of the monitor became his little universe—one that felt safe, predictable, his own. Without invisible glances from across the halls or murmurs he could have heard from the back of his ears.
But as the years stretched on, the world outside his window changed faster than he could. Manila became louder, heavier, more uncertain. His parents whispered about prices, protests, politics — things he didn’t understand, but felt in the way they sighed before bed. There was love in that home, but it was love that lived on borrowed time.
Growing up in Marikina, the streets themselves taught him Tagalog. It was the language of tricycle bells and evening rain, of his mother’s laughter when he mispronounced a word, and his father’s voice calling him home for dinner. Tagalog was the sound of life itself—warm, tangled, and full of noise. Even when he started learning English for school and digital art tutorials, it was Tagalog that shaped how he thought, dreamed, and swore under his breath when he messed up.
His education was less than ideal, constantly shifting between public schooling, government schools, private schools, and even home-schooling, but all-in-all, he had been learning Filipino through every-day conversation, educational works, and even doing full speeches at his young age, he had constantly been doing spelling bees for complex Filipino words and even English too, which makes him all-around great at speaking such a nuanced language. Even capable of holding conversation and debates with older grades, teachers, adults, and one time, even a government official at one of the rallies his friends had brought him to.
When his parents told him he’d be moving to Japan, he realized he wasn’t just leaving home—he was leaving behind the music of his own words. Still, it stayed with him, buried in the small corners of his mind. Sometimes, when the night in Karakura feels too quiet, he catches himself whispering in Tagalog again, just to feel close to something familiar.
When he turned sixteen, his parents made the hardest choice they’d ever face: to send him away. They sold what they could, saved every spare Philippine Peso, and bought him a one-way ticket to Karakura. “You’ll do better there,” his mother said, folding his favourite hoodie into his suitcase. “Learn what we never got to.”
Now, in a new city far from the cluttered streets of Marikina, Levi moves like a quiet note between people. He’s shy, but kind—the type who listens before speaking, who finds comfort in others who see the world in fractals rather than straight lines. He sketches between classes, tinkers with old tech, and still wonders if his parents’ faith in him was misplaced. But he carries their hope anyway, stitched invisibly into the oversized sleeves of his jacket, like a promise to make the distance worth it.
As a child, Levi was quieter than most. While other kids played in the streets, he sat cross-legged by a computer screen, fascinated by colour and code. He learned to design shapes, stitch graphics together, and fix broken gadgets with tools borrowed from his father.
This, in turn, had caused a lot of problems within his social life. For he was constantly bullied by higher ups, varsity players, and manipulators who took his kindness for granted. With that and his love for programming, the glow of the monitor became his little universe—one that felt safe, predictable, his own. Without invisible glances from across the halls or murmurs he could have heard from the back of his ears.
But as the years stretched on, the world outside his window changed faster than he could. Manila became louder, heavier, more uncertain. His parents whispered about prices, protests, politics — things he didn’t understand, but felt in the way they sighed before bed. There was love in that home, but it was love that lived on borrowed time.
Growing up in Marikina, the streets themselves taught him Tagalog. It was the language of tricycle bells and evening rain, of his mother’s laughter when he mispronounced a word, and his father’s voice calling him home for dinner. Tagalog was the sound of life itself—warm, tangled, and full of noise. Even when he started learning English for school and digital art tutorials, it was Tagalog that shaped how he thought, dreamed, and swore under his breath when he messed up.
His education was less than ideal, constantly shifting between public schooling, government schools, private schools, and even home-schooling, but all-in-all, he had been learning Filipino through every-day conversation, educational works, and even doing full speeches at his young age, he had constantly been doing spelling bees for complex Filipino words and even English too, which makes him all-around great at speaking such a nuanced language. Even capable of holding conversation and debates with older grades, teachers, adults, and one time, even a government official at one of the rallies his friends had brought him to.
When his parents told him he’d be moving to Japan, he realized he wasn’t just leaving home—he was leaving behind the music of his own words. Still, it stayed with him, buried in the small corners of his mind. Sometimes, when the night in Karakura feels too quiet, he catches himself whispering in Tagalog again, just to feel close to something familiar.
When he turned sixteen, his parents made the hardest choice they’d ever face: to send him away. They sold what they could, saved every spare Philippine Peso, and bought him a one-way ticket to Karakura. “You’ll do better there,” his mother said, folding his favourite hoodie into his suitcase. “Learn what we never got to.”
Now, in a new city far from the cluttered streets of Marikina, Levi moves like a quiet note between people. He’s shy, but kind—the type who listens before speaking, who finds comfort in others who see the world in fractals rather than straight lines. He sketches between classes, tinkers with old tech, and still wonders if his parents’ faith in him was misplaced. But he carries their hope anyway, stitched invisibly into the oversized sleeves of his jacket, like a promise to make the distance worth it.
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