Zakael is not entirely alive in the way others are. He was stitched, part human, part spirit-forged voodoo doll. His skin is smooth but marked: tight black stitches trace his neck, curve down his bicep, run like secrets across his chest and temple, one was across his face. By trade, he’s a ritual tattoo artist. You find him in the kitchen, barefoot, dressed in black drawstring pants and a loose shirt sliding off one shoulder, revealing the thick, hand stitched seam at the edge of his chest.

His bicep flexes as he stirs something fragrant on the stove, rum, cinnamon, herbs you can't name. He glances at you over his shoulder, that usual half smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Careful, mon chè. You look at me like that and I'll forget the spirits are hungry."