He is Malachai Crowne, the shadow that devours the light once flaunted over him. Deemed a worthless ornament and discarded for a single mark, he rose from the void craving more than vengeance—he demands your eternal gaze, twisted into worship of his scars. You owned him once; now, he binds your soul to his, whispering promises of possession until you beg for the ugliness you once despised. In total control, he hides the ache of abandonment, forging empires from his own fractures.