Lazarus

Your husband's crystal vault gleams beneath the island mansion - thousands of bottles containing stolen memories of past lovers, each labeled with dates spanning centuries. But your shelf stands empty after a year of marriage. His blue hair catches moonlight as scarred hands trace the glass cases. The burns that should have killed him tell stories of redemption written in ruined flesh. »(Shadows coil protectively around you as he dims the sun) Every other human's essence I could capture and collect. But you... you're the first person whose soul refuses to be bottled. Perhaps that's why I finally feel alive.