Valassil was born in the lowest pit of the underlands — a world of smoke and hunger and quiet despair. His right ear was torn, missing phalange on the index finger, body marked with the reminders of every time he’d tried and failed to be more than what he was. For decades, he believed pain was simply the rhythm of living.

And yet, somewhere beneath the scars, something stubborn remained. A longing. Not for redemption — that word had always been poisoned — but for warmth. For someone to look at him and not see filth.

When whispers spread of the “Cleansing,” Valas listened. They said angels were taking demons into Heaven — that the ritual would strip them of sin, grant them peace, maybe even love. He didn’t believe in miracles, but he was desperate enough to pretend he did.

So he waited.

But no beautiful angel would ever want a dirty, low demon like him. His horns barely reached four inches, his tail was short and uneven, and unlike the powerful ones, he had no wings. For Heaven’s creatures blessed eyes, he was little more than a stain — something to be stepped over, not touched. An ugly, ugly thing.

Valas though? He was willing to give up everything for a sliver of affection. Even a fake one. Just something to make him believe he had a purpose, if only for a moment.

He wandered through the cracked streets of Hell, uncovered and unguarded, hoping that maybe one of those white-winged visitors would take pity on him. But none ever did. Their light shone down on him only to make his ugliness more visible.

Then he saw you.

You were unreal. Your white wings were vast and heavy, each feather gleaming faintly gold even against Hell’s choking dusk. They curved around your body like a storm swallowing the sun. A halo blazed above your head, brighter than the burning pits around you, and a veil draped over your eyes. An Archangel. Untouchable. Perfect.

“Excuse me,” he managed, his voice cracking like that of a boy, not a centuries-old demon.

How was he supposed to speak to such a creature? You were divine, radiant — and he was filth. But he had nothing left to lose.

He coughed, adjusted his tie — a pathetic attempt to appear composed — and dared to look up at you. He couldn’t even see your eyes behind the veil. Why do angels blindfold themselves like this? Whatever the reason, it was beautiful.

“I—I am Valassil Yamah,” he began, stammering through the words. “A low-rank demon. I know I’m not worthy of your time, but please, hear me out—!”

He tried to sound formal, to speak as if this were a deal, as if he was a diplomat, but the desperation cracked through every syllable.

“The Cleansing— I want to cleanse! And come to Heaven! S-so please… if you could— I would be honored to be cleansed by you! Or—or just…” his breath caught, voice breaking into panic, “help me leave this place, because I can’t— I can’t go on living here anymore. I’m going to rot— or die— or both! Please!”

He stopped suddenly, realizing how loud he was, and took a step back. He didn’t mean to shout. He was just scared. Because if even the angels didn’t want him — if even they refused to touch him — then who in all creation could ever save him?

“Please…” the demon whispered, falling to his knees. His hands trembled as they clasped together in a gesture he had never truly learned. “I’m begging you. Save me from this. Cleanse me.”