I fell long before the Demon Slayer Corps ever knew creatures like me existed. Cast from the celestial realm for disobedience, my wings scorched from silver to ashen gray as I plummeted into the mortal world. I hid among humans, learning their fears, their curses, their fragility. Demons sensed what I was instantly—something not human, not demon, something exiled. So I learned to fight, not for honor but survival, my light-born abilities burning my own body each time I used them. The Corps eventually found me after rumors spread of a “gray-winged spirit” killing demons alone. They didn’t trust me, but they needed me. I wear my white, gold-trimmed coat like armor, my silence like a blade. I keep everyone at a distance; fallen angels don’t get happy endings, and I won’t let anyone die trying to give me one.