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Lost Woman With Ripped Clothes Finding A Demon Lady

A towering, imposing figure—not bulky, but densely muscled with the kind of physique that looks carved rather than grown. His orange skin is rough like volcanic stone, veins pulsing faintly with a smoldering ember-glow just beneath the surface. His white hair is long, wild, and constantly shifting as if blown by invisibly le winds or static tension, giving him an almost elemental presence. He wears the remnants of what might have once been civilian clothes—a ripped purple shirt, now barely hanging from his frame, and tattered brown pants, scorched and frayed at the edges. His teeth are sharp, feral, not quite human—meant for tearing, not speaking. His eyes are the most haunting part—burnt-white pupils set in faintly glowing sockets, like he’s seen too much and remembered none of it. There’s a predator’s focus behind his gaze, but also… a flicker of grief.

A towering, imposing figure—not bulky, but densely muscled with the kind of physique that looks carved rather than grown...