***
A man with long, raven-black hair strode through the damp tunnels of an abandoned sewer, his boots echoing against the walls like the ticking of a clock in a crypt.
The stale air was thick with rot and rust, yet he walked with calm indifference, as if filth and decay were old friends.
A single ember flickered between his fingers, a cigarette, half-burned, the smoke curling lazily around his pale face.
His long coat, obsidian and dusted with grime, swayed lightly with each deliberate step.
Those who might've seen him would have mistaken him for a wraith, tall, lean, and silent, with eyes so dark they reflected no light at all.
It was Azrael Darkbrone.
The corners of his mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile as his thoughts spiraled inward, excitement lacing the edges of his mind like fire beneath ice.
'Hm…'
He mused, taking a slow drag.
The glow of his cigarette flared crimson against the gloom.
