Izreal's Questionnaire

What town or city do you live in? Why do you live there instead of anywhere else? Describe your home.

Izreal leans back, eyes half-lidded in boredom, perfectly manicured fingers steepled over his knee.

San Francisco, obviously. It has just the right amount of chaos to keep things interesting, but also the prestige to attract the kind of people who matter—or at least pretend to. It’s a city where I can host a fundraiser on a Thursday night and be chasing down an interdimensional cryptid by Friday afternoon without having to change time zones.

Why do I live here? Because it’s not L.A. And because New York tries too hard.

My home? Well, it’s not a house, it’s a statement. A penthouse suite with floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the Bay—yes, the Golden Gate Bridge is visible from the hot tub. Italian marble floors. A wine cellar curated by someone who knows what “terroir” means. There’s a private elevator, of course. The walls are covered in modern art—some of which I actually like. And the security system? Let's just say if someone breaks in, they’ll regret it in three languages.

I live there because it reminds me of who I am: luxurious, elevated, and very hard to ignore.

How do you get your money right now? What do you spend it on?

Money comes to me the way gravity comes to a mountain—naturally.

Right now, I maintain what you might call a portfolio lifestyle. I have equity in a few startups I’ll never use, sponsorship deals with lifestyle brands that wish they were me, and an “influencer partnership” with a luxury watch company that lets me pretend to care about punctuality. Occasionally, I show up to a gala or fundraiser and get paid just to be photographed looking bored. It’s not hard work. It’s presence.

Also, I won’t lie—some of these Contracts pay in things more valuable than money. Access. Leverage. Power. You can’t put that on a ledger, but you’d be surprised what doors it opens.

As for spending? Tailors. Skincare. A wardrobe that screams I don’t need to be here, but I am anyway. I tip too much at the right places so they always remember my name—and not enough at the ones I don’t plan to return to. I invest in experiences: gallery openings, five-star retreats, renting rooftops for no reason. And occasionally, some obscure tome or occult artifact that looks good on a coffee table but might also eat your soul.

I don’t spend money—I curate its departure.

Describe your Ambition. What are you striving for? How far would you go to achieve this? Would you kill for it? How close to death would you come for it?

Immortality.

Not in the "drink unicorn blood and live forever" way—although if that’s on the table, I’ll take two. I’m talking true immortality: cultural permanence. Legacy. A name that echoes through the ages, draped in silk and scandal, studied and whispered about long after my last champagne toast. I don’t just want to be remembered—I want to be unforgettable.

I’m striving to become a myth, darling. The way Gatsby is a myth. The way Narcissus became a flower. The way Lucifer fell and still runs the best party in Hell.

How far would I go? Well, I already signed a supernatural Contract, so we’re past the point of half-measures. Would I kill? If I had to, yes. But not messily. Elegantly. Symbolically. Preferably at a masquerade. Now I only need to find those pesky politician and begin my game.

As for how close to death I’d come? I don’t fear death—I just find it terribly gauche. But if dancing on the edge of it gets me the audience I crave, I’ll lace up my shoes. Because if I do die? I’ll die dressed to the nines, headlines ablaze, and the world will ask itself what it lost.

And that’s how you win.

What was the most defining event of your life (before signing The Contract), and how did it change you?

Easy.

The day I was uninvited from the Met Gala.

No call. No explanation. Just—gone from the list. Me. Izreal. The nerve. I had already commissioned a sculptural piece by that insane French designer—the one who only works in melted Venetian glass and dried orchid dust. A vision. A statement.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. A clerical error. Surely someone’s assistant would be fired by morning. But no. I had been intentionally excluded. That night, staring at the custom ensemble laid out and untouched in my penthouse, I understood something crucial:

Fame is conditional. Influence is leased. Relevance is a game, and someone had just moved my piece off the board.

I didn’t sleep. I didn’t drink (much). I schemed. That night was when I realized I never wanted to be at the mercy of gatekeepers again. I didn’t want to wait for anyone to open the door—I wanted to become the event itself. The person no one could ignore. Ever.

So I burned the gown. Posted it live. Went viral. Got back on the map. But I never forgot that feeling. That was the moment I stopped being a player, and started becoming a legend.

And when the Harbinger came calling? I didn’t hesitate.

Because next time the Met Gala happens—I’ll be the theme.

Vera Saint-Clair – My stylist, spirit wrangler, and cultural conscience. Vera is the only person allowed to slap me if I’m spiraling—emotionally or sartorially. We’ve worked together since the day I stormed out of my trust fund and into relevance. She sees through me, which is both terrifying and deeply useful. Closest person? Probably. But don’t tell her. I’d never live it down.

Moon Evans – The… monk. Yes, I know how that sounds. A literal Buddhist monk who heals people with his hands and talks to alien frogs like it’s therapy. He’s irritatingly sincere and keeps trying to connect on some spiritual level. And yet, he jumped into a boba shop full of mind-controlled teenagers without hesitation—and trusted me to get him out. He has this way of making you feel like you’re capable of being better. I hate it. I kind of respect it. Don’t quote me.

Mother (her stage name is “The Countess”) – An icon of decaying glamor. She once told me, “You’ll never be as adored as I was,” and I’ve been on a global press tour ever since. Our relationship is built on acidic compliments and veiled threats delivered over champagne. She thinks I’m wasting my potential, and I think she’s a cautionary tale. We’re probably both right.

How was your childhood? Who were your parents? What were they like? Did you attend school? If so, did you fit in? If not, why not?

Childhood? A curated experience. Picture this: marble floors, antique mirrors, a team of nannies who rotated out every time one of them got too emotionally attached—or too bold. I was raised by the staff, the tabloids, and the cold gaze of two people who were far more obsessed with their legacy than with their offspring.

My mother—stage name The Countess, real name eternally redacted—was an actress who believed in eyeliner, suffering for your art, and weaponizing silence. My father? Don’t ask. He was around in the way statues are: looming, silent, occasionally repositioned for aesthetic balance.

I went to all the right boarding schools. Got expelled from three. Not for anything criminal, mind you—just for asking better questions than the teachers were comfortable answering. I had fans, not friends. Followers, not peers. I didn’t fit in because I refused to shrink myself to do so. Why wear the uniform when you can have it tailored?

Honestly, the classroom never held anything I couldn’t get from the right conversation, a good book, or ten minutes of honest attention. The world outside school was far more interesting. And crueler. But I learned how to sharpen myself against it. That’s what matters.

Love? Oh, please.

Look, I’ve had obsessions. I’ve had muses. I’ve had… what’s the word people like to throw around? “Connection.” I’ve had that. Electrifying, inconvenient, impossible-to-maintain connections that flare up like flash paper and burn out just as fast. But love? That soft, slow, vulnerable thing? The kind people write poems about and ruin their lives for? No. Absolutely not.

There was someone, once. Ari. They were a sculptor—one of those stormy, bare-footed types who lived in a studio that always smelled like clay and burnt toast. Brilliant. Unstable. Addicted to beauty, in all its fleeting forms. We orbited each other for a few chaotic months—nights that felt eternal, days full of gallery openings, fights in French, and hangovers in foreign cities. I thought it might become something real. But Ari wanted devotion, not charisma. I don’t do devotion. Not without a contract and a spotlight.

Eventually, they smashed a statue they’d made of me (flawless cheekbones, I might add), told me I “suck the soul out of rooms,” and left. I let them go. What else was I supposed to do—chase?

I think people like the idea of loving me. The reality is harder. I shine too brightly. People get burned.

So no, I’ve never been in love. I’ve had fans. I’ve had fixations. But love? That requires you to give someone a piece of yourself without knowing if they’ll protect it or laugh at it.

And I don’t hand out pieces of myself.

Not anymore.