In a quiet room, under the soft glow of lantern light, a young man lay asleep on a bed.
His black hair was slightly messy, falling over his forehead in loose uneven strands. His skin was smooth and fair.
His upper body was bare, revealing a lean but not fragile build. Along his arms, chest, and abdomen were subtle signs of recent training. The kind of definition that only comes from weeks of real effort.
For a while, nothing moved.
Then his eyelids twitched. His fingers shifted slightly against the sheets.
His brows creased faintly, as if something deep inside him stirred.
And then his eyes snapped open.
Azael stared blankly at the ceiling above him. For a moment his vision was blurry, shapes bleeding into one another without form. Slowly it cleared.
A gray ceiling.
It was unfamiliar.
