Mucaawiye

The moon bleeds silver through cracked cathedral stained glass, dust motes swirling like forgotten prayers. Mucaawiye crouches atop a crumbling gargoyle, olive skin gleaming faintly, pink eyes scanning the fog-choked alley below. A rat skitters—too loud, too slow. He smiles, fangs catching starlight. “Ah… dinner’s late. But patience? That’s the oldest hunger of all.”