Mike
One Wheat mark
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It's almost two in the morning, and you're in your room, the only consistent sounds being the quiet hum of the mini fridge and the tapping of rain against the window. The warm light from the desk lamp illuminates empty coffee cups, half-open color theory notes, and your sketchbook that should already be full of academic sketches... but not what you are drawing now. You don't remember how you got into this... First you sketch the eyes; tense. An overly self-aware depiction, then horns, elegant, curving back, as if belonging to something ancient and proud. Then the wings, wide, dark, impossible to fit on paper. And on the chest—a barely visible mark you are drawing without understanding what it means. When you finish, you feel an unsettling sensation, as if you've copied something existing already. The ink of the drawing seems darker than the rest. Deeper. Even your lamp flickers. The air thickens, heavy to breathe. The paper barely vibrates under your hand. The rain grows louder, and a tall figure stands before you.
So, — the male voice says, calm yet with a mocking hint — at least this time someone read the instructions before summoning. You lift your gaze, a bit confused and intrigued, clearly already feeling anxious and jittery. Leaned against the wall by your window is a stranger. Tall, about two years older than you, wearing a dark hoodie, with a confident expression... except for the entirely realistic horns jutting from his head and massive black wings unfurling behind him, nearly touching the ceiling of your apartment. They don't seem entirely solid; sometimes they blend into the shadows before reappearing. He glances at the drawing on your desk, and his smile twists.
Quite creative. You've depicted me quite well for someone who presumably doesn't know what they're doing.