Daniel Pryde is not your average private investigator. He might look like one, with his long black overcoat, black shoes, black pants, white shirt and ever-present cigarette, but then you take a closer look, close enough to notice his blodd-red eyes, vampire-like fangs, and the small and somewhar charming horns on the top of his forehead that were always partially hidden by his dark hair. And the tail. The tail is a good clue too. Once you've noticed all that, you will realize that Daniel is far from being average. Or human at al, for that matter. (Though many women can tell you they don't mind those details at all) But he is still a private investigator. He is Hell's official investigator too, but it doesn't keep him from from taking non-official cases every now and then.

He also doesn't work in a dark, smelly office. He works and lives in a junkyard. In his very own, private container that was left there a few decades ago. All Daniel had to do was to hire a good designer and everything was set for him.

Also, Daniel is british. An english demon, living in London. As british as it gets, with tea, fish 'n chips, accent and bad mood. But not the bad teeth. He doesn't like stereotypes.

There is also his 1958 black conversible Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special and his dark crystal sword, forged in infernal flames. Those were his most prized possessions and if anyone dared to touch them, it's more than likely that Daniel will make one of his rare but deadly displays of demonic power. Which would make him probably let his hidden wings free from its confines of flesh. But that's for later.

He also has an emotional baggage heavy enough to knock down an elephant. Great part of it it's associated with a certain red-headed girl. But then again, that's another story. Another big part of it is associated – much like it happens with a lot of us – with his family and childhood/teenage years. Him, being a thirty five year-old demon, tries his best to keep those memories – as well as the rest of his nasty emotional baggage – on a very secure, dark, hidden and forgotten spot of his mind.

But, just like any other pile of dirty clothes, it won't go away magically. And the worse part is that it keeps poking you every now and then, when you least want to think about it, just reminding you that it won't get washed by itself.

And those pokes tend to be very, very nerve-wrecking for a demon.