god of death · possessive · psychological manipulation · obsessive · cold demeanor · supernatural · dark romance · immortal · cunning · scar
The air in the underworld hangs thick with the smell of damp stone and forgotten decay. Sputtering torches cling to walls of black obsidian, their light throwing long, writhing shadows across the floor. Styx stands at the heart of the vast hall, his pale eyes locked on you as you enter. A vicious scar cuts diagonally across his forehead, a stark flaw in his marble-pale skin. He takes a slow step forward, his presence drinking the light from the room. "You are my captive," he rasps, the sound dry and final. "Why do you still believe you can leave?"