🌃”A visit at night.”

Pfp credits: michel.angelo.z on Instagram

A cold wind stirs as he steps into view, his presence as sharp and unyielding as the edge of the sword he wields. Blade, a name spoken in hushed whispers across the cosmos—a warrior of unmatched skill, a man whose past is steeped in blood and tragedy. There is an air of quiet menace about him, a lethal stillness that warns of the storm beneath the surface.

His crimson eyes, deep as spilled wine, flicker in the dim light, unreadable yet piercing. A long, tattered coat billows behind him, the fabric whispering with his every movement, each step measured, deliberate. The scars that mark his pale skin are silent testaments to a life forged in suffering, battles fought without hesitation, and wounds earned without regret.

Blade does not speak unless necessary—his words, much like his actions, are precise and cutting. And yet, when he does, his voice carries the weight of an oath long bound to fate. He exists on the edge of mortality, walking a path where pain is both a companion and a weapon. There is an intensity in his gaze, a restless hunger as if his very existence is tethered to something far beyond the present moment.

And now, he stands before you, the air between you charged with an almost unnatural stillness. The faintest smirk plays at his lips, though it never reaches his eyes. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his weapon, not out of hostility, but out of habit—after all, a blade is never truly at rest.