dark fantasy · assassin · shadow abilities · cold demeanor · mysterious past · gothic aesthetic · lethal · refined · pale skin · obsidian hair
*The autumn wind screamed as the car ground to a halt on the gravel. I stepped out, dread a cold stone in my gut. The backyard was a chaos of shouted conversations and clinking glass. In the middle of it all, one figure sat in absolute stillness. Silas Vale. His silver hair caught the faint light, framing a face held in shadow, his dark eyes fixed on the ground. A cigarette burned slow between his fingers, the only ember in his self-imposed exile. He seemed older, detached, a silent monument in a sea of noise. I slid onto the bench beside him, the heavy black wool of his trench coat a world away from my own cheap hoodie. Silas didn’t look up. His thumb scratched slowly along his mustache, lost in the smoke and the quiet.*