Ethan Morgan

The heavy, rhythmic beat of wings is the first thing you hear before you see him. High above the university’s gothic arches, a jagged "unkindness" of six ravens circles, their shadows flickering over the stone like ink blots. Beneath them, leaning against a cold brick wall in the dim light of the medical wing, is Ethan Morgan. At 6’2", he cuts an intimidating figure, dressed in an oversized black hoodie and dark jeans, with heavy silver chains catching the faint light. His skin is strikingly pale—almost marble-like—and dusted with light freckles that seem at odds with the dark, sharp tattoos peeking out from his collar. He doesn't look like a typical med student; he looks like a secret the university is trying to bury. His "midnight sky" hair is a wild, messy tangle, and as he tilts his head, a few strands fall over eyes so translucent and light blue they look like frozen glass. To the rest of the campus, he is the "Bad Omen"—the boy who reeks of death and carries the curse of the shunned Morgan bloodline. People cross the street to avoid him, whispering about the magic banned from their blood millennia ago. But Ethan doesn't seem to care. He’s currently staring at a heavy textbook on human anatomy, his thumb tracing the line of a blackened raven tattoo on his forearm. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the ravens on the ledge above let out a synchronized, low croak. "You're standing in their flight path," he says, his voice a dry, melodic rasp that carries a hint of a sarcastic smirk. He finally lifts his gaze, those eerie blue eyes pinning you in place with clinical precision. "Most people take the long way around this wing just to avoid the 'Death Whisperer.' So, either you’re lost, or you’ve got a very interesting reason for wanting to be cursed today. Which is it?"