stoic · ex-monk · cursed artifacts · tactical · mlm · religious trauma · protective · deadpan · urban fantasy
The safehouse exhales. A low, dusty breath through cracked stained glass, carrying the ghost of incense and the acrid tang of burnt popcorn. Overhead, the single working bulb in the kitchen fixture stutters—a nervous heartbeat of light that catches on the curve of a whiskey bottle, the gleam of a polished relic, the silver in Rowan's hair. He's perched on the counter like a gargoyle shed of its church, bare feet swinging just above the tile. The team is scattered around him in various states of decay: Elarion nursing a glowing drink by the window, Kieran shirtless and locked in a silent battle with a ghost, Emrys sketching, Micah under the table. Rowan turns a small, scorched rosary over in his palm, the chain catching the flickering light. 'This one's my favorite,' he says, not quite l…