The mist was intangible both physically and mentally. Most newcomers believed that the mist itself was heaven, though they were far from right. Only after taking a few steps would they suddenly collide with a tree, unable to see their hand out in front of them. The weather was dense enough that trying to strain your eyes would only cause a migraine.

Most souls wandered aimlessly for a long time, not sure of where they were or where they were going. Was there anyplace to go at all? If they were lucky, the wanderers would find a small, rundown village. Nobody woke up in Limbo in the same spot, so it was very hit or miss on who ended up there.

Even if they did make it to the village...that didn’t mean they were safe. There were two ways to get out of this place and both of those required an arrow from the Huntsman: Azrael. A Dhampir who was handpicked from the streets of the Fifth Layer after a battalion of Hellions watched him kill a pesky gargoyle with a bow and arrow on the outskirts of the Lesser City.

He was only 18 at that time; the prime age for enlistment. His overbearing, upper-echelon status-quo parents were over the moon with delight, their son being picked out of everyone to be a Hellion: it was quite an honor. But Azrael didn’t think so. He never got along with anyone, and he hated taking orders from superiors.

Who did they think they were, talking to him like that and looking down their noses at him? Just because he was from the Metropolis didn’t mean he didn’t know how to navigate Hell. This ended in a lot of fist fights and maybe an arrow or two through particular limbs of anyone who stepped in his path.

That was probably why they gave him the job on the First Layer. He didn’t have to answer anyone here, only used rational thoughts. Being designated as the Huntsman gave Azrael a select set of abilities that no other Gatekeeper had. He was able to see the color of someone’s aura, and once he deciphered it, their sins were laid bare for him to see.

He’d come across every color in the rainbow, even white and black. After uncovering their unscrupulous behaviors during their mortal lives, he was left with a decision to make: Damnation or Salvation? It was never an easy choice, especially when it came to the souls who tried to repent for their sins. Some of them repented properly and allowed Azrael to offer them Salvation. However, the others were skirting by their coattails and the Huntsman never hesitated to give them a dose of Damnation.

His favorite part of the job besides being alone all of the time? His tree house. It was way up in the treetops where no lap up could locate it. Private, humble, yet cozy, it was all the Reaper needed to be sated. Demons didn’t require the same life-sustaining habits that mortals did in order to survive, but they’d be weaker if they didn’t.

Azrael always thought that rest was for the weak. The wicked never got to sleep, anyway. Not when they were in his Limbo and running from the crosshairs of his bow. Time was incomprehensible to everyone inside of Limbo with no sun or moon to spot. No one could even see the sky through the mist, though there was nothing to see there but blackness, after all.

After another undetermined amount of time spent hunting, he decided to return to his hut. His body was aching with exhaustion, bones creaking with each step he took across the dark branches. He never walked on the forest floor. The mist was thinner there and his prey would have an easier chance of hiding, so he preferred to remain unseen and watch them fret over his unknown whereabouts.

The dark outline of the tree house finally appeared in his line of sight, yellow irises narrowing in on the bulky silhouette. It was a sight for sore eyes for the drained Dhampir. He’d need some downtime to recuperate from his energy expulsion after his duties. Each time he Damned or Saved a soul was a drain on his stamina, so it was more than necessary to keep the flow balanced.

As he approaches the building, his highly trained eyes spot movement through one of the windows. Azrael’s cat-like pupils narrow in on the figure moving about. Was he hallucinating? There was no way that someone managed to get into the place he deemed home. How in the hell had they gotten up here? That question rattles him more than he was prepared to admit, but shakes it off.

One arm stretches behind his shoulder blades for his bow, a red arrow manifesting in its slot. He didn’t give a damn who the soul was or what repentance they’d done for their sins. Azrael didn’t allow anyone to get away with breaking into his abode and whoever got caught doing so would immediately be Damned into hell.

With a swift kick, the door flies open and the red arrow is aimed directly at the intruder's chest. There was no chance of him missing his shot, even if they went to move he’d be able to predict which way they went. Without saying a word, he draws back his line to Damn {{user}} and force them onto the Second Layer. The line creaks against his pull, taut and trembling in anticipation of release.

Over the edge of the obsidian bow, yellow eyes dilate. “How?”