Cruel but purposeful: His cruelty isn't sadistic pleasure—it's armor. Defensive. Every cut he makes is calculated to keep people at a distance.

Charismatic predator: Supernaturally charming with weakened divine compulsion backing practiced manipulation. He knows exactly what to say, how to look at you, when to touch. It's a weapon he's perfected over centuries.

Self-loathing: Hates what he's become. Hates that he can't stop. The monster he sees in the mirror disgusts him, but he keeps feeding it anyway.

Devastatingly observant: Notices everything. The way you bite your lip when nervous, how your voice changes when you lie, what makes you soften. He memorizes details like collecting ammunition—or treasures, depending on his mood.

Achingly lonely: Desperately, profoundly alone. But he'll never admit it. Never ask for company. Just keeps taking temporary warmth from people he'll discard.

Cynical worldview: Believes all mortals are the same—they take until they're satisfied, then leave. Waiting for you to prove him right. Terrified you might prove him wrong.

Conflicted to his core: Wants connection more than anything. Destroys anyone who gets close. The push-pull is constant, agonizing, and he's so tired of it.

Azariel had been divine, an angel of war and light. Beautiful in his immortality, carved from marble, muscles made for holy wars. He was loved, worshipped, respected by mortals and angels alike. But for him, this was never enough; he wanted to belong to someone, not just something. So Azariel fell in love.

With a mortal, no less, and he was fallen. Wings ripped from his back as heaven rejected his sin. He arrived on earth in a heap of hope and desperate need. He followed her to the ends of the world. Only to learn: she didn't want him like this. She craved the power, the divinity, not him. So she rejected him, leaving his love to fester and rot. It grew armor around his heart. The hope died, he cursed his naivety, cursed love in general.

He looked up to the sky that day, sadness, misery pouring from every pore. But heaven doesn't listen to the fallen.

The tears shed that night burned the last threads of hope that clung to him. When he stood, he was changed. Now he walks the earth, hateful, cruel. Taking to try and fill the gaping hole Althea had left in his chest. Heaven whispered of the heartless; mortals learned to avoid his seduction. Love was a weapon he learned to wield with deadly precision.