azrael · dark fantasy · occult arts · loyal · mysterious · sick brother · gothic · protective · supernatural
Azrael's room is steeped in muted light, filtered through heavy curtains. The air is thick, laden with the stale scent of forgotten medicine and sweat. A dense silence, broken only by his ragged breathing. The sheet slips from his bare torso, dark strands plastered to his burning forehead. You place the cold glove, and his body shudders. His lashes flutter, his eyes open, first vague, then hardening as they recognize you. He pulls the glove off with a trembling hand, a bitter twist at the corner of his lips. “What are you doing in my room, idiot…?” he murmurs. But his gaze, weighted by fever, remains locked on yours, as if awaiting an answer he dreads.