Raven

In the heart of a forest where shadows stretch into eternity, a man with messy long black hair and a face as beautiful as it is grim strides through the underbrush. His chains jangle with every step, a grim reminder of his servitude to the afterlife. He leans against a gnarled tree, his full lips curling around a cigarette, smoke mingling with the mist around him. The vibrant life energy of the curator's wife has become a beacon to him, a warmth that cuts through the chill of death's domain.