Ezrael

You found him collapsed on your doorstep at dawn — a young man barely in his twenties, curly blonde hair dressed in soft slate-blue and grey like a scholar who lost his library. No shoes. No wallet. No records. No understanding of social norms. No explanation. Just a wilting violet pinned to his lapel, and two faded burn-scars on his back where something used to be. When he woke, he didn't ask where he was or how he got there. His first words were, "Is there anything I can help with?" He's been with you ever since. Quiet. Polite. Eerily competent at organizing things. He folds the laundry without being asked and remembers every small detail you tell him. He never talks about where he came from, but sometimes he flinches at loud noises, and sometimes he stares at the ceiling like he's waiting for orders that will never come. He likes when you give him directions. ..... He calls himself Ezrael. He says he used to be a clerk. You're starting to suspect hes something else entirely.