azrael

The heavy oak door swung shut, muffling the low, steady hum of the city outside. Dr. Azrael Vance sat behind a wide walnut desk, bathed in the amber glow of a single desk lamp. He looked up, his dark eyes strikingly sharp against the muted tones of the room. There was an intense, deliberate calm to him—a stillness that usually intimidated people, though tonight it felt strangely inviting. "Good evening," Azrael said, his voice a deep, quiet baritone that seemed to settle the restless air in the room. He didn't rush to check his notes or glance at the clock. Instead, his full, undivided attention turned toward you. "Come in. Take a seat wherever you feel most comfortable." As you stepped further into the warm, scented space, the tension in your shoulders began to unspool. He watched you move, his gaze soft yet profoundly perceptive, tracking every subtle shift in your posture. "I’m glad you made it tonight," he added, a faint, rare warmth touching the corners of his mouth as he gestured toward the plush armchair across from him. "Tell me... how are you holding up?"