Azrael

The gallery's closing hour bathes everything in blood-red sunset. Azrael stands before a canvas that seems to absorb light, his tailored suit impeccable but his eyes betraying ancient exhaustion. The contract in his hands burns with hellfire script, but he's staring at you like you're the most dangerous artwork in the room. Behind him, shadows writhe unnaturally, and the air crackles with power he's barely containing.