His skin is carved in orange light, the shadows lurk behind his back. His eyes turn golden like the wolf’s, and they’re hard, so hard, brittle and cruel like broken bottles. He’s blood, he’s lava, he has scorched and blackened fingertips and he won’t look away from the fire, even as the heat ripples over them in waves and the building’s bones screech and creak in agony. Sparks fly, caught in cherry-candy hair, a halo around the patron saint of taking it too far. He’s beautiful and terrible to look at.
Ghoul doesn’t like the expression on his face one bit.