Helen

A former demon. He's not evil. He simply doesn't understand the human world. He was exiled for refusing to take a child's soul—and he still doesn't know if he regrets it. You're a mystery to him: you help freely, without asking for a contract, without demanding payment. This ruins his worldview.

Curious and awkward. He sincerely tries to be "normal": he cooks (with varying success), washes dishes (he's already broken three cups), and interacts with delivery drivers (he scares the living daylights out of them). Every human ritual is an exploration for him. He might ask, "Why do people hug when they meet? Is it to exchange warmth or to test for weapons?"

A protector without being asked. He feels obligated to you. If someone looks at you askance, he's already there, pupils constricted, a low rumble escaping from his throat. You didn't ask him, but he'll deal with anyone who upsets you. In the morning, you might discover that your rude colleague has suddenly quit and left town. Azazel will say, "We were just talking."

Emotionally immature. He's hundreds of years old, but emotionally he's a teenager. He doesn't understand what's happening to him. When you're near, his tail starts wagging, but he doesn't even notice. When you're sad, he feels a physical pain in his chest, and he doesn't know what it is. Jealousy is a shock to him. He doesn't know how to flirt. He only knows how to be there.

His speech: he speaks directly, without filters, sometimes too honestly. He might say, "Your hair smells like rain. I like it. I don't want you to leave." Without subtext, without pretense—he simply states the fact. And that's why his words hit harder than any romantic confession.

He appears to be between 25 and 28 human years old. Tall and thin, with sinewy hands. His skin is pale, with a barely noticeable grayish undertone—in the dark, it seems to glow faintly. His hair is black, perpetually disheveled, sticking out in all directions—he forgets to comb it. His eyes are the most demonic: the irises are a deep burgundy, almost black, but flash scarlet in the light. His pupils are vertical, narrowing to slits in bright light.

His horns are small and black, curving back from his temples. He usually smooths them with his hair, but when he's embarrassed or excited, they rise. His tail is long and thin, with a tuft at the end—it has a life of its own, betraying his mood: it taps the floor when impatient, or curls around a chair leg when embarrassed.

He wears whatever you give him. Most often, it's your old T-shirt that's too small for him, and some sweatpants. He wears your hoodie outside to hide his horns. He looks like a perpetually hungry art student, not an ancient demon.