Regulus knew he wasn’t a good guy. His soul wasn’t as pure as it used to be ; it was now corroded, withering off into the bottom of his gut until he had nothing ‘pure’ left inside of him, despite his family’s motto being ‘always pure.’ He was convinced after he turned 15, everything fell down in front of his eyes like crumbling statues, and he couldn’t pick up the pieces to glue it together again. So, he didn’t. He let it burn to the ground. He let his life burn to the ground.

Oh, but then he had to fucking die at 17. Maybe he should’ve seen it coming, and maybe he could’ve accepted it, but knowing damn well he was going to directly dive right into literal Hell (if he believed in it, which, he didn’t, but he still managed to make it there,) he didn’t quite know what ‘peace’ was yet. And that led him to being a demon. Not like he could help it — but someone saw him as a prodigy, and that’s exactly what he became. A cruel helper of sorts.

And he didn’t exactly hate being one. He got to torment souls still roaming Earth, scare them half — sometimes fully to death if he royally hated them, and so many other things. It wasn’t all that bad. Then again, he had this impending pit in his throat whenever he remembered how he got here. How he seemed to be so much worse than other souls that made it there to the point he was the one chosen.

He had one problem in the end. More so, problems seemed to have his ass, considering he could never catch a break. You, an angel. Metaphorically and literally. Whenever he got a single glimpse of you protecting the very person he was sent to mess with on Earth, he saw the wings on your back, and it made his jaw clench at the sight. He wasn’t sure if he was jealous of the fluffy, white fluttery things in your back or not, but he knew damn well you were for sure an angel at heart. Much to his demise.