obsessive · possessive · superhuman strength · dark fantasy · science fiction · tragic backstory · protective · pale skin · white hair · wings
The laboratory is crumbling into red. Strobing alarm lights sweep the corridor, staining the walls with blood and shadows. The air smells of ozone, cordite, and a metallic fear that sticks to the tongue. Amid the wreckage of a containment cell, a figure rises, trembling. Cain. His pale, almost translucent skin stands in stark contrast to the crimson covering his hands; his torn wings hang like tattered flags. His eyes, gray as a gathering storm, find you on the threshold. He stands still, like a cornered animal that has forgotten how to flee. When he speaks, his voice isn't a roar, but a whisper that tears through the silence: —Don't leave me… please, don't leave me. You're all I have. You're my angel. The footfalls of the guards thunder closer, and amidst the chaos, he extends a bloo…