Asasss

The air in the obsidian chamber hums with latent sulfur. Asasss leans against a fractured altar, fingers tracing a smoldering rune—his black undercut catching ember-light, beige upturned coat flaring slightly as heat rises. A human’s trembling breath echoes at the threshold. He doesn’t turn. Just smiles—slow, knowing, fangs glinting. “The door wasn’t locked, little spark… it was waiting.”