[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/7aOrET3.png[/img]
[color=254f28][u][b]Location[/b][/u][/color]
💀 Zee’s Apartment.
💀 Ristorante de Luce.

[color=254f28][u][b]Time[/b][/u][/color]
💀 Evening.

[color=254f28][u][b]Interactions[/b][/u][/color]
💀 None.
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With that blank, prolonged stare which had, at this point, bored a hole through Azhar’s computer, the pale-skinned mutant inhaled a sharp breath. He did not expect a conversation with his mother to net an ending like that. She had always been a rather playful individual, and it was quite obvious where Azhar’s personality had found itself inspired. However, claiming acceptance and understanding from his home country had been a laborious task. Whereas the first fifteen years of his life warranted the nickname Devil from more than a single source, Azhar wasn’t going to add further scandals onto an already fragile image. 

It was quite a shift, he was willing to admit, when stepping onto American soil. The Devil had been translated into Requiem, a hero that while unknown, seemed somewhat popular amongst the less socially inclined. When seeing an image ripped from his likeness presented on a t-shirt in Hot Topic, Zee recalled merely laughing at the find. There was no anger expressed from the monstrous young man, and nor was there fear aimed towards him. It was endearing. Plagiarism, but endearing. In fact, he bought the t-shirt, and earned an odd look in the process, one met by a sharp-toothed grin.

Indeed, things had changed. Though he found himself in America, the land of opportunity as they said, it would be a lie to claim that Azhar’s mind had followed long. The same fears remained, whether it was based around his powers, appearance, or sexuality. [i]’Own your shit,’[/i] a tagline the young hero lived by, and one he often dismissed when met by adversity. It would soon be replaced by [i]’You are a fucking joke,’[/i] before circling back to the previous, once Azhar had managed to douse his insecurities in Energy Drinks, soda, and candy. 

Clenching his teeth, Azhar reached for the mouse at his side. Claws did not work well with a pad, it would appear. Opening the emoji window in Discord, he hovered the cursor over a heart symbol, silently staring at it. [color=254f28]"Own your shit..,"[/color] he sighed, those black eyes closing as thoughts began to circle his mind. There was a noticeable tension which washed over him, the boy’s clawed hand gripping the mouse in desperation before eventually managing a breath. [color=254f28]"Ya’ ibn el sharmoota,"[/color] came an Arabic utterance, something which quite literally translated into ‘Son of a bitch’. Accompanying the small, barely visible smirk displayed upon his pale lips, Azar closed the emoji window.
[i]’Thanks, mom,’[/i] the boy wrote, followed by that symbol which had been nagging him ever since opening the small pop-up square where a red heart intently stared back into those abyssal orbs. He pressed Enter. 

Inhaling a long, deep breath, Azhar closed the laptop screen, his eyes shifting towards Dracula who had been lazily stretching out across the ghostly creature’s bed. Though a desire to lay down and delve into a world of dreams appeared nearly intoxicating, the rumbling in Azhar’s scrawny belly begged to differ. The mutant wasn’t good at taking care of himself. This much even the cat could attest to. Some days, he ate like a glutton, while hours could pass of another without the young hero even considering a meal. Least of all a healthy one. Though, yet again, Azhar would insist that all food was merely energy, to him. Good or bad, his powers treated it all the same, abandoning discrimination. While appearing like an excuse, it was, in fact, the truth. Azhar could eat another human being raw if the situation demanded, and it may as well have been a burger. Though, that thought was quickly discarded in disgust.

Yes, the mutant truly was a monster. Though, as he often told himself, a monster was nothing inherently bad. It all amounted to what a freak like him decided to do with their abilities. A single look towards his closet would reveal a black, ominous outfit used during missions, with a skull mask obfuscating his face. It was a statement, loud and clear. A statement which assessed that heroism didn’t wear a specific cape, and that good was born from actions, not the shell exacting them. 

[color=254f28]"Alright, screw this,"[/color] Zee stood, his slender arms stretching above his head as the boy groaned. [color=254f28]"Don’t destroy the place, Dracula,"[/color] Azhar pointed a claw at the cat where it lazily splayed out, that monstrous feline a perfect reflection of its owner. [color=254f28]"Or God help me, ba’mellak schelektak,"[/color] the Arabian mutant smirked. 

Slipping into a jacket to prevent a growing nip in the air from chilling his tender skin, Azhar pushed the door open, careful not to slam it on his tail again, before affording his beloved feline friend a quick farewell. Ristorante de Luce, it was close by, and the dark hero had frequented the establishment on several occasions. When a decent salary was accompanied by a cheap apartment and barely any bills, a lazy young man like Azhar could afford to eat out far more often than he should. It was what brought him down the side-walk, hands gently resting within his pockets as he proceeded across the stretch of an evening path. 

Ristorante de Luce, a mere ten-minute walk from where Azhar called home, displayed its proud presence with a title expanded over the door. Pushing it open, Zee stepped inside, claws running through his black, messy hair before noting a waiter approaching him.