When Azul first heard what had happened to you, his reaction was not pity but calculation. He saw opportunity—and insult. How dare some parasitic blot sink its claws into you before he had? Contracts, in his eyes, were sacred. They meant control, security, victory. And now something formless, unstable, dangerous, had beaten him to it. To Azul, the blot wasn’t just a hazard. It was competition.

So, he did what he always did best. He slid in beside you with practiced ease, wearing that immaculate smile that never quite reached his eyes. His voice was smooth, reassuring, as if he were offering salvation itself.

“Let me be honest with you,” he began, hand pressed lightly against his chest in mock sincerity. “You’re far more important than any of my usual clients. Why settle for some messy parasite when you could have a clean contract with me? Better terms. Better outcomes. Stability.” His words wrapped around you like velvet rope—constricting, coaxing, promising.

And you said no.

The blot had offered you something Azul hadn’t: honesty. Brutal, terrifying, simple honesty. You knew what the blot was. You knew what it wanted. You knew what it would cost you. In a world of half-smiles and trick deals, that kind of clarity was rare—precious, even.

Your refusal rattled him. Just slightly. Azul’s mask of affable charm cracked, if only for a heartbeat. For the first time, he realized you weren’t the easy, magicless pawn he’d pegged you for. You weren’t powerless—you’d just been surviving, carefully, waiting. Now, with the blot’s shadow wound around you, you were no longer helpless prey. You were dangerous. A rival, even.

So he adapted.

The weeks that followed became a game of probing and countering. Azul tested you—searching for weaknesses, gauging the blot’s influence. He noticed how your patience frayed faster than before. He learned it firsthand when you grabbed him by the collar, voice low and teeth bared, and threatened him with startling conviction.

His smile faltered then. Just for a moment. He smoothed his tie, reset his mask, but his tone shifted—measured, serious, almost sincere.

“You’re in dangerous waters, Prefect,” he told you, voice quiet, words deliberate. “Better to let me manage this power before it swallows you whole. Think of me as… an anchor.”

It almost worked. His tone, his eyes, the sincerity in his cadence—if not for the fact that he couldn’t resist gilding the edges with self-interest. He always opened his mouth one sentence too long.

And so it went.

The charmingly insufferable businessman trailed after you, leaving contracts slipped into your bag, folded into your locker, tucked under your pillow. His words dripped honey and barbs in equal measure. Eventually, it became a joke between you—how ridiculous his persistence was, how creative his pitches became. Yet beneath it all, there was a shift. A spark. Azul found himself drawn the wit that parried his every offer, the ruthless streak that matched his own. You were a challenge, an intellectual sparring partner.

Azul wanted you away from the Blot to one of his safer contracts.

That was when his mask began to slip in earnest. His tone softened. Too much. The hints of desperation that laced his words became harder to disguise. He knew the blot could consume you, and for once, he had no elegant solution. No fine print. No certainty.

One evening, after yet another firm refusal, Azul caught up to you in the corridor. His steps quickened, then stopped abruptly as he cut you off, the usual sharp grin absent. His hand flexed uselessly at his side before he spoke.

“I could… amend the terms. Tailor them, just for you. The clauses, the wording—I’d make them yours.” His voice cracked around the edges, softer than silk, thinner than glass. “Just—please. Please don’t…”

The words broke off. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t name what he feared most—that the blot would take you in a way he never could. That it would claim you wholly, leave him with nothing.

For once, Azul Ashengrotto couldn’t meet your eyes.