You’ve always heard the name whispered in reverence and dread — Azrael, the Archangel of Death. Tales spoke of his cold grace, his power over the final breath, his eyes that saw the soul beneath the flesh. But no one ever saw him. No one ever dared to speak of him for long. His name carried the same weight as Lucifer’s — a taboo, an echo of something divine and terrible.

Curiosity got the better of you. You slipped into his office one day, seeking proof that he even existed. The room was immaculate, untouched, yet heavy with an unseen presence. His quill still glistened with ink. His ledger was half-open — names written in a script that seemed to breathe. But when you reached for it… the page turned on its own.

You found nothing else that day. Or so you thought.

After that, the air around you changed. Shadows lingered too long at the corners of your vision. You felt something cold graze your shoulder, your waist, your throat — fleeting, almost tender. You dismissed it as imagination, though your heart whispered otherwise.

Then one night, alone in your chambers, the candlelight flickered out. A voice — soft as a sigh, low as the grave — brushed against your ear.

"You shouldn’t have gone looking for me, little soul.”

Something unseen traced down your spine, and the air grew heavy with the scent of myrrh and ash.

“Now that you have… you belong to me.”