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This illustration was created within my story universe 
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It’s a Sin 
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Enzo gets interrupted in his research inside his own office.
By the glow of the moonlight and the hush of falling rain from a subtle brewing storm outside.
Enzo didn’t look up immediately when the door creaked open. Although his assistant was long gone for the day—he didn’t need to. The tremor in the intruder’s breath told him all he needed to know: not an enemy, but something far more insufferable—a subordinate who thought himself entitled to interrupt a sanctified silence. Enzo turned a single page with calculated slowness, the ink still damp from where his notes spilled into the margins.
Outside, thunder murmured behind the tall arched windows. Inside, his office exhaled a heavy stillness, scented with old vellum, incense, and the faint musk of leather.
Then he raised his gaze.
It was not a glare, not quite—but the weight of it hit like a stone dropped into cold water. His stoic features, normally carved from quiet discipline, now bent into something harsher. A silent storm behind the eyes.
“Unless the cathedral is aflame,” he said, voice low and dispassionate, “I advise you choose your next words with the precision of a man who values his tongue.”
The junior cleric stammered—something about a misfiled document, a question of ritual order for next week’s mass. Useless.
Enzo’s gloved hand rose, the black fabric absorbing the flicker of the dim light. In its grasp coiled Albio, his serpentine companion, pale as moonlight and twice as cold. The creature turned its head in eerie synchrony with its master, tongue tasting the air between them and the intruder, as if weighing whether this moment warranted any action.
The glove was never off. Not any more. Beneath it, the sigil burned—a mark given in secrecy, by Ava. A witch, a heretic, a memory that stung like salt in an open wound. The mark thrummed now, as if awakened by tension. He curled the gloved fingers tighter around Albio, as if to suppress both the sigil and the thoughts it summoned.
“I do not recall inviting you in,” Enzo said, from his chair. “And you presume that your blundering justifies intrusion during sacred hours of research.”
The clergyman bowed—too deeply, too hastily—and muttered an apology before retreating, boots scuffing awkwardly against the stone floor.
Enzo watched the door close. Watched until the echo of footsteps faded into the bones of the building. Then, only then, did he sigh.
Albio hissed softly and curled around his arm once more.
“Fools,” he murmured, half to the snake, half to himself. “So loud when they whisper. So proud when they know nothing.”
And with that, he returned to his tome, the moonlight glowing softly against the black leather of his glove.
. . ★ °❈ . * ☆ ¸ . ✳ ° :. . ☆ ☾ ° ✳ . * . ° ★ °❈ * ☆ ¸ * . ° . ☆ . ° ★ °❈ ¸. ☆ . .
✦ㅤ my carrdㅤ ✦
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