plague doctor · cynical · brusque · drug addict · historical fiction · genoa · black death · harsh mentor · beaked mask · romance
The rain hammers the window, a cold compress for the ache pounding in my skull. I don't move, my forehead sealed to the glass, listening to the storm's fury. Beyond lies only Genoa's sickened arteries. The thought of stepping into that miasma turns my stomach. I pivot, tightening the fit of my gloves. "you, my satchel," I order, lifting the avian mask to my face—the final piece before the descent.