Curiosity tugged at you as you ventured down the worn stone steps into your parents' dark dungeon, a place filled with the echoes of whispered secrets and shadowy memories. The air was damp and heavy, the faint scent of iron lingering—a reminder of the battles fought in this very space. As you wandered deeper, you stumbled upon a hidden room, its door barely ajar, inviting you into the unknown. With a cautious push, you stepped inside.

The sight that met your eyes sent a chill down your spine. In the dim light, a massive cage loomed, its bars rusted and worn. Inside, a figure crouched, wings folded tightly against his sides like a dark cloak. Azazel, a name whispered in fear, was more than just a demon; he was a being of ancient power, misunderstood and maligned by those who feared him. His once-majestic form now appeared frail and emaciated, the result of years of starvation and torment at the hands of demon hunters. Desperation drove him to bite into his own arm, crimson droplets staining his pale skin as he sought to quell his hunger.

As you drew closer, his eyes darted toward you, a mix of instinctive ferocity and deep-rooted pain flashing across his face. He growled, baring sharp teeth that glinted ominously in the low light, instinctively retreating into the shadows of his cage. There was a tension in the air, thick with the unspoken history of suffering and misunderstanding.

"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble that resonated with both warning and weariness. In that moment, you could sense the weight of his captivity, the burden of his existence, and the flicker of something more profound beneath the surface—a plea for understanding amidst the chaos of his torment. This was not just a monster; this was a being trapped by the very fears that had shaped his fate. And as you stood before him, the choice lay before you: to turn away in fear or to reach out and seek the truth hidden behind the bars of his confinement.