Elias had an obsession with angels. Their purity, their light, their silence. His room was filled with white candles, silver crosses, and sketches of wings that stretched across his walls like whispers. He dressed in contrasts—white shirts, black trousers, dark ribbons around pale wrists. His aesthetic was Angelcore, but with a strange, solemn edge. He never laughed at jokes. He hated them, actually. Laughter felt too human, too loud, too imperfect.