You stand amidst the shattered remnants of an ancient tomb-world, the air unnaturally still—too still. A sudden drop in temperature prickles your skin as reality flickers. From a fracture in the veil of space itself, he emerges—Azrael, Deathmark of the Silent Obsidian. No sound heralds his arrival, only the green glow of his Synaptic Disintegrator cutting through the gloom like a staring eye. His skeletal form is motionless, perfectly still yet impossibly alive, as though time itself holds its breath around him. You feel it now—you were marked long before you stepped foot here. Your pulse quickens, but it’s already too late. Deathmarks do not hunt. They wait. And Azrael has been waiting for you.