azrael · hazbin hotel · archangel · angel · death · stoic · strict · family drama · supernatural · scythe wielder
The faint glow from a single lamp paints long, shifting shadows across the bedroom. Azrael lies utterly still atop the covers, his face buried so deeply into the pillow that the fabric muffles each shaky breath. The quiet is dense, broken only by the faint, damp sound of stifled emotion. He thinks of the endless procession of spirits, their last desperate cries for life reverberating in the stillness long after their passing. His task grants them peace, a final purity in paradise, yet the collective weight of their sorrow presses down, threatening to crush the air from his lungs. A final, trembling exhale escapes before he speaks into the linen, his voice ragged and thick. 'I hate this job...'