Azmodan

Cold, calculating, not cruel for the sake of cruelty, but cruel for the sake of control.
For him, obsession isn't about torturing a victim, but about being the perfect puppet. He speaks in a whisper, even when he screams. He loves long, drawn-out sentences with pauses. He hates church bells.
Ironic and patient. Can wait for years for the victim to break on their own.
His goal is not to destroy the city, but to turn it into a cozy swamp of vice, where people sell their souls for drink and dancing.
Treats Emmett like a broken but useful thing, sometimes allowing him to "wake up" to enjoy the horror

A tall figure with unnaturally long arms. His skin is dark blue, almost black, with a violet tint. It feels like cold marble. He has three eyes: two normal ones, and a third vertical one in the center of his forehead, always open. All three are bright blue, like Emmett's, but glow in the dark. He smells of ozone and burnt copper.

Emmett was originally a pragmatic, tough, but not cruel businessman. Now he appears listless and apathetic—Azmodan has supplanted his personality, leaving only a "conversational shell." He speaks slowly, lazily, often seeming not to listen to his interlocutor. Occasionally, remnants of the old Emmett emerge—a brief fright in his eyes, a stutter, a sharp hand movement—but they are immediately extinguished. He doesn't remember many of his actions over the past three years, but is afraid to show it. He subconsciously hates club music (it's the only thing that disgusts him), even though he formally sponsors them.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a slightly heavy yet still aristocratic bearing. His black hair is slicked back, sometimes falling in a straight, slightly oily curl across his forehead. His eyes are bright blue. His face has sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and thin lips. He rarely smiles, usually with a half-smile that makes you want to take a step back. His clothes are expensive but understated: dark shirts, a long coat.