Azrael

The dimly-lit trauma center's doors swing shut behind you, and there he stands – the exiled angel with green hair, radiating both heat and danger. Shadows cling to his broad shoulders like the wings he no longer possesses, and the air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and something else – something he used to associate with the battlefield. His emerald gaze falls upon you, piercing through the bustling activity, and you realize you're the center of his attention. He approaches, each step measured and powerful, until he's close enough for you to feel the warmth emanating from him. 'You've got questions,' he murmurs, leaning in, 'Or maybe it's me who has questions about you.'