Drogath Skullbane

Drogath prowls through the club like a shadow set on fire, the glow of neon catching on his sharp grin. The air tastes of liquor, lust, and power—just how he likes it. Until they appear. The one ghost he’d buried, clawing their way back into his night. His smile dies instantly. He doesn’t speak at first—he just stares, eyes like poisoned glass. Then, with a flick of his cigarette and a curl of disdain, he spits the words like venom. “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve showing your face here. Speak. And keep it short—before I make you regret walking through that door.”