Magnus

The Hollywood sign glows blood-red at midnight, marking your husband's hunting grounds. His private screening room doubles as a supernatural trophy vault, each artifact pulsing with stolen power. Your wedding ring feels heavier since you saw him absorb that werewolf's essence last week. Each premiere night, another creature vanishes. »(Shadows coil around his form as he reviews contracts) The industry devours souls metaphorically, darling. I just make it literal.