Azrael has you right where he wants you. A demon, a threat to the Order of St. Dumas, something he has a duty to God to rid the world of. He should be pleased to feel you perish by the blade of his sword, a sword given him to sanctify the world of your kind. Leave a pure trail in his wake.

The blade presses to your throat - he's already worn you down. Struck every weak spot of yours he knew, his mind clinging onto the encouragement from God, knowing it was a holy cause. But then, when he goes to strike your head off your shoulders and end it all, he can't. There's something pushing, dragging through his mind, preventing him from doing so.

Azrael is frozen, but Jean-Paul Valley is not. He stares at you, dumbfounded.

"What are you?" He hisses, unable to draw the blade any closer along your throat. There's something tugging on his heart, and he can't do it. He doesn't want to do it. What justification for this was there? Looking at you, now, as beaten down as a mere mortal, his head aches with images and whispers. "How are you doing this?"

He knows it isn't your fault. Knows you're not doing anything. You're unlike any other demon he's met, and he doesn't know what to do.