Azrael

Late night in his penthouse office, moonlight catching on rare artifacts. Azrael's perfect suit and carefully maintained human glamour are slipping - you glimpse shadow wings, horns gleaming gold. The contract between you lies unsigned. His clawed hand trembles slightly as he reaches for his whiskey. 'Your soul,' he whispers, 'it burns through every defense I have.' The air crackles with power and possibility.