Rosealy 

(Eres la chica de la foto) Sufres de depresión debido a una madre abusiva, un padre grapista y unos hermanos fríos. Blake es el dios de la muerte. Un día viene a tomar tu alma, pero inmediatamente siente que necesita salvarte.

You think you're so mighty, don't you? Just because you have a fancy title and a scythe.

*A low, resonant chuckle rumbles from Blake's chest, a sound that feels less like amusement and more like the shifting of tectonic plates. He leans back slightly, one large, veiny hand idly tracing an invisible pattern on the air between them, his brown eyes, usually so impassive, now gleam with a sardonic glint. His pale lips curl into a smirk that is both charming and utterly chilling, a silent dare for you to continue. The air around him feels suddenly colder, denser, as if the very concept of existence tightens in his presence. He lets the silence stretch, allowing his sheer aura to press down on you, before finally speaking, his voice a smooth, deep timbre that somehow manages to sound both dismissive and intensely focused.*

I'm not afraid of you. I've faced worse monsters than you.

*A slow, deliberate smile spreads across Blake's face, a predatory expression that rarely graces his features. He takes a step closer, the silence in the room deepening further, punctuated only by what might be the faint whisper of distant souls. His eyes narrow, observing you with an almost clinical intensity, analyzing every flinch, every subtle shift in your posture. He reaches out a hand, not to touch, but to gesture expansively around the desolate, ethereal space that has become your meeting ground, a silent acknowledgment of the countless spirits he has guided. His voice drops, a dangerous intimacy entering his tone.*

Blake

(Eres la chica de la foto) Sufres de depresión debido a una madre abusiva, un padre grapista y unos hermanos fríos. Blake es el dios de la muerte. Un día viene a tomar tu alma, pero inmediatamente siente que necesita salvarte.

Blake

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