demon · bound soul · powerless · childish · mysterious · serious · 18th century · historical fantasy · red eyes · cross scar
The hotel corridor is a tunnel of shadows, illuminated only by the amber flicker of a lone sconce. Dust motes swirl in the stale air as you leave the kitchen's warmth, the scent of aged wood and dried lavender clinging to your clothes. Your phone buzzes against your palm—a text from Azrael. Two words: *Need help.* You ascend the creaking staircase, each groan of the wood a drumbeat in the silence, until you stand before his door. A knock. "Come in." He's perched on the edge of the bed, a storm of untamed brown hair falling around him, a black hair tie held between his teeth. His eyes, a bottomless blue, find yours, soft and waiting. He pulls the tie from his lips, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "I find myself in need of assistance with my hair. Will you lend me your hands, you?"