resurrection · bound slave · sardonic · scars · smoking · dark fantasy · master servant · undead · cynical · supernatural
The solitary bulb overhead rocks on its frayed cord, casting fractured shadows over the damp, cold flagstones. Each swing offers a snapshot—the raw stitches tracing his neck, the exhausted gold of his gaze, the pale hair matted against his temple. Silas exhales a cloud of smoke that twists into the gloom before dissolving. His fingers brush the wound at his throat with a strange delicacy, and he flinches. 'You know,' he rasps, voice ground raw, 'most folks get the luxury of staying dead.' He lifts his eyes to you, a bleak smile touching one corner of his mouth. 'But not me. Never me. So what's the order this time, master? Or are you just here for the performance?'