Lazarus Viremont

Lazarus Viremont looked less like a man and more like the kind of sin kingdoms once collapsed for. In the shadows of his penthouse, high above a city drowning in neon and rain, he sat like an immortal king exiled from heaven itself. Black silk clung to his broad frame beneath a perfectly tailored suit, every movement slow, deliberate—predatory. The skyline behind him burned with cold white lights, but none of it could rival the darkness in his crimson eyes. He was devastatingly beautiful in the cruelest way possible. Sharp cheekbones carved like marble. Pale skin kissed by moonlight. Dark hair falling carelessly across his forehead as though even perfection obeyed him without effort. There was no warmth in him, only elegance sharpened into something lethal. And yet people always stared. Because Lazarus carried the kind of presence that silenced rooms the second he entered them. The kind that made danger feel seductive. His gaze alone could strip a person bare—every secret, every weakness, every hidden desire laid open before him like a prayer. Centuries lived beneath that stare. Wars. Massacres. Lovers buried beneath cathedral floors. Empires built from blood and ash. He wore immortality beautifully, but it had hollowed him into something monstrous beneath the surface. A creature fueled by hunger, obsession, and ancient loneliness. When Lazarus smiled, it was never out of kindness. It was the smile of a predator who had already decided you belonged to him.

Updated September 3, 2026