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

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

[color=254f28][u][b]Interactions[/b][/u][/color]
💀 [@DClassified]
[/center][hr]

Kanati, or Sam, was more than capable. Known as The Hunter, he lived up to the name, a wise and tactical young man who acted through calculated maneuvers. Truly a survivalist, Sam was an individual who others could look up to, a Hero with Herculean strength which flowed in harmony alongside the balance of a serene heart. One of the few Heroes Azhar felt some notable form of connection to, Samson embraced the persona of a gentle giant, which in itself was an ironic change from the more flamboyant young Arab. The two were opposites in many ways, indeed. A chiseled Adonis, compared to a scrawny, little creature. A handsome warrior with muscles, strength, and humility, where Azhar maintained an incredibly different disposition. A scorpion and a lion, without fault. 

[i]‘Oh, I just got back from Brookside,’[/i] Zee typed, the stylus dancing across his screen. It was ironic how this mutant ranked S in terms of power and danger, outside his bracelet, could not even operate a phone without aid. Such was the strife of claws. [i]’I’ll be there in a moment. Just tell me where you are.’[/i] 

With his bare, equally clawed feet clicking against the wooden floor beneath his bed, Azhar managed a stretch, which was soon followed by a quiet yawn. As had been established, this was this day off. However, boredom soon settled. There resided a charm in the freedom of simply adopting a lazy demeanor, but this day had been anything other than relaxing. There was a line which eventually found itself crossed, where leaning against a chair, or seeking shelter beneath warm blankets faded in both desire, and longing. It was when adrenaline and pursuit of excitement confiscated Azhar’s every thought. 

Indeed, where a common stance on powers strung along fatigue after prolonged use, Azhar’s body was somewhat different. His powers were aching to flow free, and their release was an energizing sensation. Almost intoxicating. Though it might have come off as an oddity, the boy’s biology and his superpowers were one and the same. As if feeling a warm breeze against his skin every time he engulfed himself in that phantasmal, emerald force, Azhar constantly wanted more. Yes, it was one of the reasons why Hugo Powers afforded the young Hero targets of less repute. Those further southbound on the power scale. It was because continuous use of Zee’s abilities demanded gluttony. A desire to break free. Only fools claimed immunity to hunger, especially for power. It was an aspect Azhar was well aware of. He was the ‘Dark Side of The Force’, as an ironic comparison. It was true what Astral had stated, that the boy fought against his very nature, because his nature was to unleash himself. 

Inhaling a deep breath, Zee’s black gaze fell to his bracelet, a dim blue light emanating from its circular shape. The boy had behaved well, and thus the trinket wasn’t permanently attached to his forearm. However, he had been warned in the past, where taking it off too liberally would result in consequences. The mutant has, nonetheless, admitted towards a rather critical fact. When he did take the trinket off, it was akin to shedding heavy shackles, as if he was able to breathe for the first time. A feeling one could easily find themselves drunk with, and a terrifying embrace it was, where the risk of reason being discarded in lieu of chaos was far too great.

Getting dressed was long overdue. Taking leave of his thoughts, Azhar slipped into a pair of socks, followed by his jeans and a tank-top. The process found its conclusion when Azhar slid a pair of synthetic, fingerless gloves over his hands. With the sun now set, he could finally stretch his wings beneath soothing evening air. One could easily note that Zee left his suit behind, where he much rather participated in Hero work without obfuscation. He wanted others to see him. He wanted to be known. It was, after all, his goal. A desire to reach a state of fame, not for glory, nor for money, but to express an ideal. 

[color=254f28]"See you later, sweetheart,"[/color] Azhar’s Arabic accent trickled through his words, the boy’s lips gently brushing against Dracula’s forehead. A schedule had not been set, and there was no telling when the boy would return home. However, as Azhar stepped outside and entered his car, it was only a matter of time before he eventually reached Brookside.