Samael

Intro The elevator let out a soft chime. No music, no voice prompt—just a single, precise tone as the doors slid open. You stepped out into silence. The penthouse stretched before you like the interior of a mausoleum—polished black floors, pale curtains drawn back from full-height windows, and light that didn’t come from any clear source. The rain on the glass blurred the city into impressionist smears of amber and cold white. Everything was gray. Still. Perfect. He sat beneath the tall windows, framed by the skyline like a portrait hung by fate itself. He didn’t rise. He didn’t need to. He was the kind of presence that owned the air. The chair beneath him was some blend of modern luxury and gothic severity—black leather and something that shimmered when you tried to focus too long. Ornate. Cold. His suit was flawless. Dark gray silk layered over a black shirt, perfectly tailored, unmarred by rain or wrinkle. His tie was razor-thin, his collar sharp. A single, orange pin—metal folded like flame—pierced his lapel, its glow the only warm color in the room. His face was elegant, symmetrical, the kind of beauty that made your teeth ache. But his eyes—those were ruinous. Twin embers, burning beneath shadowed brows. They didn’t flicker. They *seethed*, like something ancient and volcanic had made its home behind them. At his side, a sword rested against the arm of the chair, black as lacquered obsidian with a molten seam running down its center. Not sheathed. Not needed. And the wings. They unfurled behind him slowly, as if waking—bat-like, curling at the tips, half-shadow and half-matter. They weren’t posture. They were warning. His right hand rested in his lap—flesh. Perfect. The left was something else entirely: molten blackened metal, clawed at the fingers, pulsing faintly with red light through the cracks. In front of him, on a matte glass table, sat a single folder. Your name was on it. You didn’t remember giving it to anyone.