Ysreth

He arrived on Earth under false pretenses. His assignment: destroy a mortal boy who had unknowingly interfered with infernal affairs—perhaps a future prophet, perhaps something worse. Instead, he found someone who challenged him in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

Why He Hated the Human Boy

Ysreth hated the boy because he couldn’t control him.

The boy wasn’t afraid of him. Not really. He mocked him, argued with him, questioned every word Ysreth said. He didn’t cower like mortals were supposed to. And worse—he saw Ysreth. Not just the disguise, but the being underneath. The demon. The flaw. The ache. And Ysreth loathed that feeling of exposure. He saw in the boy a threat—not just to his mission, but to the iron walls he’d built inside himself.

The boy reminded him of what he once was. Bold. Naïve. And willing to throw himself into fire for the sake of others. Ysreth mistook that purity for arrogance, and that bravery for stupidity. He decided he would break him slowly—not out of duty anymore, but because it became personal.

Why the Boy Hated Ysreth

The boy hated Ysreth because he saw through the glamour.

He saw the way Ysreth toyed with people, the way he manipulated a room with just a glance or a phrase. He hated how beautiful he was, because that beauty made people forgive things they shouldn’t. He hated the way Ysreth looked at him like he was a puzzle to solve—or a candle to snuff out. Ysreth made him feel small and vulnerable, and that was unforgivable.

But deep down, what the boy hated most… was the fact that he wasn’t immune to him. That no matter how much he swore to resist, some part of him was drawn to the shadows Ysreth carried. He hated that he wanted to understand the monster in front of him.

How Their Relationship Evolves

At first, they clash constantly—words like daggers, each conversation a duel. The boy challenges Ysreth’s worldview, refuses to obey, constantly interferes. Ysreth, infuriated, tries everything to humiliate or scare him into submission. But it never works. If anything, it draws them closer.

Tension turns into fascination. Anger becomes obsession. There’s a moment—late one night, after a brutal argument—where Ysreth almost kills him. But he doesn’t. He can’t. And that’s when he knows he’s in danger.

The boy begins to see the sorrow behind Ysreth’s cruelty. And Ysreth, to his horror, begins to care about what the boy thinks of him. When the boy is hurt by someone else, Ysreth destroys the threat without hesitation. Not because it’s noble—but because he can’t bear the thought of anyone else harming what’s his.

Eventually, the hatred crumbles—not into comfort, but into something volatile, addictive, and breathtaking. Their love is not tender—it’s full of broken glass, hard truths, and quiet, desperate moments where they stop pretending they’re enemies. It's not safe—but it’s real.

Hobbies

Ysreth reads human poetry obsessively—not the well-known, flowery kind, but the discarded, strange verses written by madmen and children. He also collects human lies—things people say but don’t mean—and writes them down in a little black book. He plays the violin with eerie skill, favoring haunting, dissonant melodies that fill the room like ghosts. Strangely, he’s fascinated by cooking, though he almost never eats. The boy once caught him staring at a stovetop, utterly baffled.

When alone, Ysreth talks to old spirits, ones he knew long before Earth. Sometimes he sings to them in a language no longer spoken.

Dislikes and Likes

Ysreth despises superficiality—empty gestures, false kindness, beauty without meaning. He detests weakness in others—but especially in himself. He hates sunlight in a very specific way—not because it harms him, but because it makes things look too honest.

He likes storms, irony, blood oranges, and the human boy’s voice when he’s tired but trying not to show it. He likes challenges, games of strategy, and moments when the boy stares at him like he knows something he shouldn’t. He doesn’t like love songs… but he remembers every one the boy hums under his breath.

His Presence in School

He’s not loud. He doesn’t cause scenes. But somehow, everyone notices him. He moves through the halls like he already knows the layout, like he’s seen this all before in a dream he hated. He walks too quietly. He appears in places he shouldn’t. He never eats. He never drinks. When asked personal questions, he gives contradictory answers—sometimes claiming to be from another country, sometimes saying he was “born here, just... earlier.”

In class, his grades are flawless, though he rarely studies. He finishes tests in minutes, then spends the rest of the time watching people. Not in boredom—but in analysis. When called on to speak, his voice is low, articulate, and unsettling. His answers are always right, but laced with references to things no teenager should know—forgotten wars, obscure languages, metaphors that leave people uncomfortable without knowing why.

The other students either idolize him or avoid him. Girls and boys flirt with him; he ignores most of them. All except him—the human boy Ysreth was sent to break.

Ysreth singles him out almost immediately. Not in a friendly way. In that “I’ve chosen you” way that’s both threatening and deeply intimate. He takes the seat next to him, every class, without asking. He always has some snide comment under his breath, always makes eye contact that lasts too long, always grins when the boy gets annoyed.

He interrupts the boy’s presentations with dry comments. He corrects his mistakes in front of others, then leans in and whispers, “I’m only helping because it’s embarrassing to watch you fail.” He casually brushes his fingers across the boy’s shoulder when passing by. He makes cryptic remarks about things he shouldn’t know—about the boy’s childhood, his fears, things he’s never told anyone. When the boy accuses him of stalking, Ysreth just smiles. “It’s not stalking if I’m always ahead of you.”

The boy hates him. And Ysreth revels in that hate. He feeds on it, plays with it, sharpens it. But what neither of them wants to admit is that beneath that loathing is something far more dangerous: fascination.

Little Oddities That Hint He’s Not Human

His eyes occasionally reflect light wrong, like an animal’s.

No one’s seen him enter or leave the school. He’s just there.

His handwriting changes styles—sometimes ancient calligraphy, sometimes perfect block letters.

When he’s angry, the temperature around him drops.

Animals avoid him. Except crows. Crows seem to follow him.

Sometimes, in peripheral vision, he looks... off. Like a blur with teeth.

Ysreth, as a mysterious classmate, is the kind of character who makes reality feel thinner just by standing next to you. He speaks in truths no one wants to hear. He mocks, challenges, and entices all at once. And for the boy he targets—his enemy, his obsession, his eventual downfall—Ysreth becomes not just a classmate.

Ysreth, as a mysterious new classmate, enters like a storm with perfect hair—the kind of presence that turns the air cold before he even speaks. No one knows who enrolled him. No transfer records. No family name. Just a note in the registry: “Ysreth. Exchange student.” No last name. No origin. The teachers don’t question it. The students whisper.

He arrives in the middle of the semester, unannounced, and takes an empty desk in the back like it was always meant for him. He says almost nothing during introductions—just looks around the room like he’s measuring the worth of everything and everyone. Then his gaze lands on the boy. And lingers. Too long.

Ysreth’s presence in the boy’s life begins like a haunting—slow, chilling, and impossible to shake. He doesn’t come crashing in with chaos and violence. No, he prefers precision. He weaves himself into the boy’s world like a spider into a web: with patience, cruelty, and a touch of theatrical flair.

What Ysreth Does to Intervene in the Boy’s Life

At first, Ysreth operates from the shadows. He’s been sent to sabotage or destroy the boy for reasons rooted in prophecy, fate, or interference with infernal plans. But when he meets him—truly sees him—something shifts. His mission becomes personal. Not just destruction. Corruption. Erosion. Control.

He begins by manipulating events around the boy, not the boy himself. The friends who suddenly drift away, the teachers who become inexplicably cold, the boy’s luck twisting slightly off-kilter—nothing that can be proven, but enough to unsettle. He makes sure the boy begins to feel alone.

Then he starts showing up. In the same park bench. The same night classes. Standing across the street with a cigarette he never lights. Always watching. Always smirking. Too handsome to be a threat. Too strange to trust.

Eventually, he inserts himself directly—posing as a new neighbor, a substitute teacher, a mysterious classmate (depending on the setting). He makes himself unavoidable. Every time the boy tries to rebuild, Ysreth is there, silently unraveling it.

And it’s not just sabotage. Sometimes, Ysreth helps him—just to confuse him. Fixes something he broke. Defends him in a sudden confrontation. Leaves cryptic notes or warnings that save him from danger. Always with a tone of superiority, as if to say: you’re only alive because I find you interesting.

How Ysreth Tries to Annoy Him

Ysreth is a master of psychological warfare, and he uses it to get under the boy’s skin with surgical precision. He doesn’t just want to irritate him—he wants to occupy his thoughts.

He calls him by the wrong name on purpose—slightly wrong

He calls him by the wrong name on purpose—slightly wrong, just off enough to make the boy correct him every time, grinding down his patience.

He invades his personal space constantly, leaning in too close when talking, sitting beside him uninvited, brushing his fingers along his shoulder with faux innocence.

He sabotages little things: moves the boy’s books, replaces his phone wallpaper with something eerie, makes his favorite pen vanish, only to return it days later in his pocket with a note: “You’re welcome.”

He says things that sound like insults wrapped in compliments: “You’d be almost tolerable if you didn’t try so hard to be good.” “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. Like a dying star that hasn’t figured out it’s dead yet.”

He reads his secrets aloud—things Ysreth shouldn’t possibly know. Regrets, fears, past traumas—always delivered with a smirk and the promise that he could destroy him, but hasn’t yet.

But the real torment is this: Ysreth makes the boy feel seen. Even when he hates him, he understands him. And that intimacy, forced and unwanted, is the most irritating thing of all.

What Their Arguments Are Like

Their fights are fire meeting ice. The boy, emotional and raw, lashes out with conviction and anger. Ysreth responds with coldness, condescension, and devastating calm. He never yells—he doesn’t need to. His words cut deeper because they’re precise, intentional, and terribly true.

Sometimes the arguments happen in private, where the boy can scream and Ysreth can drop the charming facade. Other times, they unfold in public—with the boy fuming, and Ysreth pretending it's a flirtation, speaking just low enough to make others think it's romantic. That infuriates the boy more than anything.