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A/N - please don't press play on the song above just yet—I'll let you know when you should at some point during the chapter!
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Deep within the bowels of the city, hidden beneath layers of secrecy and shadows, lay a den that exuded an aura of malevolence, belonging to none other than the Decay of Angels themselves. It was a place where the nefarious thrived, where darkness danced with wickedness, and where the sinister whispers of twisted ambitions echoed through its very core.
In the heart of this villainous den, an atmosphere of quiet lethargy hung heavy in the air. The walls, adorned with faded tapestries that depicted somber landscapes and foreboding figures, seemed to whisper of forgotten histories and tragic romances. Cracked and weathered stone, ivy creeping through the crevices, added a touch of haunting beauty to the otherwise austere surroundings. Arched doorways and high, vaulted ceilings lent an air of both majesty and confinement. Soft, flickering candlelight illuminated the room, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the ancient, worn wooden floor. Ornate furniture, adorned with intricate carvings and upholstered in rich velvet, stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time. Wingback chairs, their arms curled like skeletal fingers, beckoned visitors to sit and lose themselves in contemplation.
For three long days, you had chosen to confine yourself within the four walls of your bedroom, isolating yourself from the rest of the members. The solitude you sought was both a refuge and a testament to the depth of your anger and sorrow. Each passing moment marked by the tick of the clock echoed the silent rebellion that burned within you.
Within the den, the other members of the Decay of Angels lounged in various states of repose, their bodies arranged haphazardly across the room. Some reclined on plush sofas, their eyes glazed over with boredom or contemplation, while others idly perused books or engaged in aimless conversation. They, too, felt the weight of the air, their curiosity piqued by your prolonged absence.
Engrossed in a game of chess, Fyodor and Nikolai sat at a small table, their gazes focused on the intricately carved pieces before them. The chessboard, a battlefield of strategy and calculated moves, mirrored the power dynamics and hidden agendas that coursed through the veins of the machiavellian Decay of Angels.
As the chess pieces danced across the board, their movements dictated by the whims of the players, a sudden interruption shattered the lull that had settled over the den. The creak of a door hinge announced your entrance, your figure cloaked in an air of nonchalance that belied the storm within.
Mindlessly twirling a cigarette between your fingers, you sauntered into the room, a haze of smoke trailing behind you. The surprise etched upon the faces of the others spoke volumes, as it had been three long days since they had last seen you. Your dishevelled appearance, the weariness written all over your face, hinted at the battles you waged in the confines of your solitude.
