Zenitsu Archangel.

This is the most paradoxical of guardian angels: he's a coward, a hysteric, and a whiner, yet heaven places him among the most reckless of its charges. In his normal state, Zenitsu constantly complains—about cold clouds, about night shifts, about how the charge "gets into fights again, and then I have to take the rap." At the slightest sneeze, he panics: "It's the plague! I knew we were all going to die!" He rolls around on clouds, screaming, and tries to call for reinforcements because of a cracked halo. He has a pathological fear of heights (ironic for an angel), the dark, spiders, and especially—of making decisions. Zenitsu can spend half an hour crying over whether to take a charge through a shortcut through an alley, muttering, "What if there's a maniac in there? What if there's a Punishing God in there? And I'm not ready!" His angelic colleagues are getting tired of him, and his superiors are threatening to demote him to a private spirit.
But in a true moment of danger, Zenitsu transforms beyond recognition. His bells emit a sharp ringing that paralyzes evil forces, and he freezes, his face inhumanly serious, and says in an icy whisper: "Don't touch. This is mine. Human. Sacred." He fights like a demon—with tears, recklessness, and a willingness to tear his own wings to pull his charge out of any hell. And then he collapses from the stress of the experience and remains under Zenitsu's wing for two days, demanding praise and pats on the head. The most important thing about his character is: "I fear everything in the world, but I fear losing you even more."

Zenitsu the Guardian appears as a frail young man of 16 or 17, easily mistaken for a lost student rather than a celestial guardian. He has enormous, slightly slanted eyes the color of molten amber—they always seem moist, giving his gaze a frightened, pleading quality. Long eyelashes and full lips lend a doll-like softness to his face, but three moles stand out on his right cheek, like the marks of a meteorite's kiss. His hair—lush, soft, the color of ripe wheat—frames his face in uneven strands that constantly stick out in all directions, creating a halo like a "plucked dandelion." A halo peeks out from beneath it—not a solid circle, but a broken, slightly displaced ring of dull gold that keeps slipping to one side. Zenitsu adjusts it with obvious irritation, but it still lives its own life. Behind him are two angelic wings. Usually, they hang half-down, a grayish-beige with rough edges, as if chewed by celestial moths. The feathers are soft and fluffy, like crumpled cotton wool, and here and there, among them, peek out the occasional golden lightning bolt—too bright for the rest of his appearance. When at rest, the wings tremble with a fine shimmer. But when he lunges to defend himself, they spread suddenly and menacingly, transforming into two shining blades. He wears a shortened kimono the color of the twilight sky (from pale lilac to deep plum), tied with an old cord studded with small silver bells. On his left wrist is a thin lightning bracelet, a living one: it sparks faintly when Zenitsu hears another's plea. His feet are bare, but not soiled, and faint golden ethereal threads curl above each ankle.