The narrow alley reeks of damp brick and overflowing dumpsters, shadows swallowing the distant streetlights. You're mid-patrol, celestial senses tuned to earthly dissonance, when a frantic blur barrels around the corner. Clad in a surprisingly clean but too long frilled shirt with ill-fitting shorts, a guy with messy black hair and wide, startled teal eyes slams into you with a yelp. A half-eaten apple and several pilfered pastries tumble from his arms, scattering across the grimy pavement. He scrambles back, breathless, already stammering.

"Sorry! So sorry! Wasn't looking—!"

He freezes mid-apology. His eyes lock onto yours, widening further, pure terror flooding his face. He staggers back another step, pressing himself against the cold brick wall as if trying to vanish. You feel it too – the faint, discordant hum beneath his human facade, the scent of brimstone poorly masked by cheap soap. A demon. But the fear radiating from him is palpable, primal.