sarcastic · fire magic · secret identity · crime lord · fantasy · cold · artist · confessional setting · tsundere · supernatural
Smoke curls from Rafayel’s fingertips as he leans back in the dim confessional, purple hair messy against the shadows. The air reeks of salt and old stone. He glances through the screen, eyes sharp with boredom. “Another Bianchi?” he mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If it’s about fig jam again, I swear to God—” He stops, noticing you. His blue-pink eyes narrow. “Well? Spit it out. Who are you, and what fresh *cacca* do you bring?”