The Afterlife was never quiet. It thrived on hushed conversations, the clinking of glasses, the shifting shadows of secrets exchanged in dimly lit corners. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, disharmony reigned.
Zane could feel it before he even saw the man. A presence that made the air feel just a little too thick, the music just a little too offbeat, the conversations around him rising into an incoherent cacophony. Laughter turned to sharp, discordant bursts, and the very walls of The Afterlife seemed to hum with agitation.
Then, the source of the discord stepped through the doors.
He was dressed in a pinstripe suit that should have been elegant but wasn't—the colors clashed violently, hues that twisted between vibrant and washed out, shifting unpredictably. Every aspect of him screamed chaos. His tie was crooked, yet intentionally so, as though mocking the very idea of order. His grin was wide, too wide, and though he moved with grace, it was the kind of grace that came from knowing you didn't have to obey the rules of the world.
The Afterlife reacted to him. The chandelier's glow flickered uncertainly, its warm light bleeding into strange hues. Conversations swelled in volume, but the words blurred together into overlapping noise. Glasses clinked louder, laughter rang too sharp, and the very air carried a hum of unease, like the first breath before a storm.
He was here for Azrael.
With an exaggerated flourish, he mockingly bowed as he approached the booth where Azrael sat, lazily reclining, a drink in hand. Zane was there too, along with Varric, who stood as still as a statue, his unreadable gaze fixed on the newcomer.
"Ah, the great Azrael," the man drawled, his tone sweet but laced with something sharp beneath. "The Proprietor, the Watcher, the once-mighty hand that held dominion. How quaint to find you still lingering in your little sanctuary."
Azrael, as ever, was unfazed. He took a slow sip from his glass before setting it down, his crimson gaze meeting the stranger's mismatched eyes with something akin to amusement. "And here I thought the club had seen its share of strange guests already," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "You must be new."
The man's smile twitched, barely perceptible. "Why, I came to see an old legend, of course. And perhaps," he tilted his head, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, "to offer a little… perspective."
Azrael raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do enlighten me."
The man leaned forward, placing gloved hands on the table. The air around them crackled, the very space seeming to writhe under his influence. "The tides are shifting, old one. The world has no patience for relics of the past. It's a new era, and I fear you're… well, let's just say out of fashion."
Zane watched the exchange with growing unease. He didn't know exactly who—or what—this man was, but the way he spoke to Azrael, the deliberate jabs disguised as pleasantries, set his nerves on edge. There was something about him that didn't belong, as though he was never meant to exist within a place like this—or anywhere at all.
Azrael chuckled, utterly unbothered. "Mm, fashion is ever-changing, isn't it? Though I have to say, I've never much cared for trends."
The man's eyes darkened, the smirk slipping for just a second before he masked it again. "Ah, of course. The unshakable Azrael. Forever watching, never acting. It's truly a wonder you still matter at all."
Azrael just shrugged. "And yet, here you are, taking time out of your busy schedule of… whatever it is you do these days, to tell me so."
A sharp silence followed. The tension in the air coiled, something unsaid passing between them like an unspoken challenge.
Then, the man straightened abruptly, his grin tightening into something far less friendly. "Well," he said, voice light again, but now cold, "this has been a delightful little chat, but I really must be going."
He stepped back, smoothing his lapels before offering one final, thin-lipped smile. "Enjoy your little sanctuary while you can, Azrael. Out with the old, in with the new."
And with that, he vanished—a burst of blue flame and smoke, leaving behind the scent of sulfur and the ghost of discord in his wake.
Almost instantly, the atmosphere returned to normal. The heavy tension lifted, the humming unease in the air fading as the conversations, the music, and even the lighting of The Afterlife settled back into place, as though the disturbance had never happened.
On the table, where his hand had rested, a burning calling card smoldered, curling at the edges but refusing to turn to ash. It was an ornate piece of blackened parchment, edges glowing faintly with embers that pulsed between blue and violet. In the center, a swirling, shifting sigil seemed to move of its own accord, warping and twisting in impossible patterns. The name written on it was illegible, the letters constantly shifting and rearranging themselves into nonsense.
Azrael sighed, picking up his glass once more. "Well, that was dramatic."
Varric stepped forward, staring at the still-burning card with a faint frown. "Shall I… dispose of that?"
Azrael waved a hand. "No rush. Let him have his moment."
Zane exhaled, only now realizing he'd been holding his breath. He turned to Azrael, who met his gaze with that same infuriatingly relaxed expression.
"Who was that?" Zane asked.
Azrael merely smirked. "Oh, just another soul trying to make a name for himself." He swirled his drink lazily. "They never learn, do they?"