August 23rd Year 1939
The city pulsed with life, as it always had—children darted between market stalls, laughter mingling with the warm breath of the wind. Shouts, chatter, and the creak of wooden carts blended into a familiar hum. Peace rested like a soft blanket over the cobbled streets, but peace, as it often is, was not universal.
Far away from the lively city, near the outskirt of London a rundown three-story house can be seen blending with the trees. It leaned ever so slightly to one side, its boarded windows and crumbling walls shows sign of abandonment.
To the passing eye, it was a forgotten thing. But scattered about the property, half-hidden in shadows, were children. Silent. Still. Not playing—working. And in their eyes, no spark of childhood danced.
There was no laughter here. No mischief. No light.
Where joy should have bloomed, there lived only fear—and a weariness that had sunk into their bones far too young. Their faces, thin and pale, bore the look of those who had learned to be small and unnoticed.
Then, a cry tore through the thick, heavy air like a blade.
From inside the house staggered a middle-aged man, broad and heavy, his face twisted in rage. He had a child in his grip—a girl no older than seven, her limbs limp from being dragged. He burst through the door, fury spilling from him.
"You little wretch!" he shouted. "How dare you defy me? Forgotten already who keeps your belly full?! ." His teeth gritted with anger.
With a vicious shove, he threw her to the ground. The girl landed hard, her cry sharp and sudden. Before she could draw breath, his boot found her stomach. She curled in on herself, trembling, tears streaking the dirt on her cheeks as she choke on her tears, showing how much she cried, writhing in pain.
The other children watched. None dared move. Fear held them in place more surely than chains ever could.
Upstairs, behind a cracked window on the second floor, a boy stood watching. His midnight black hair, long and unkempt, framed a face pale as marble. His eyes—cold, light blue—were empty of reaction. No flicker of anger, no trace of sorrow. Just stillness. As though he'd watched this scene a thousand times and learned long ago that feeling was anything but a waste of breath.
But deep behind that emptiness, buried beneath layers of silence and time, something faint stirred—something that remembered once, long ago, what it meant to care.
November 5th Year 1938
A girl body was found. Her body got tossed in the forest, leaving it to rot not even bothering to bury it. How inhumane it is.Somehow, no one, literally no one need to ask the questions ''.
" I saw Anna yesterday… she was dragged into the Dean bedroom. Her screams…", The girl's voice broke. "They were… horrible. He killed her."
She trembled as the words left her, barely more than a breath. Her face was buried in the chest of a boy who held her close, one arm around her shoulders, the other gently stroking her back.
Her sobs were quiet, but raw—grief laced with fear.
The boy said nothing. He didn't need to. His eyes, cold and distant, stared ahead—haunted. The boy had shoulder-length hair, black as midnight.
He had seen it all—every grim detail of what happened to Anna. Not just her final moments, but the horror that unfolded the day before she died.
Anna's last night replayed in his mind like a curse.
The door slamming shut.
Her screams.
The silence that followed.
He knew exactly what happened.
She was raped until her last breath left her body. No one helped her. No one even tried. They were all too afraid. It's not the first time.
And now, Anna's body was being discarded like trash.
"Azrael…", The soft voice pulled him back. The girl in his arms looked up at him, her eyes wide, trembling.
"Are we going to die too?"
Her words hung in the air—fragile, frightened, real.
For a second, time slowed. The forest was still. The wind held its breath.
Azrael's pale blue eyes met hers. For a moment, just a moment, something cracked in them. A flicker of despair.
Not for himself—but for her.
"Lily," he said, low and certain, "we have each other."
His voice was warm.
"Do you think I'd let you die that easily? Not on my watch."
No heroism. No drama. Just truth.
But there was a slight tremor in his tone, a trace of fear, fear that she'll be next. She's 11 only two years younger than him.
Lily clung to him tighter, her tears staining his shirt, but she believed him—because she had to.
In this broken, rotting world where no one came to save them, Azrael was all she had. Her protector. Her last hope.
.
.
.
.
.
A week later, another body was found in the forest.
The morning mist clung low to the ground, swallowing the trees in a pale, ghostly veil. Cold wind whispered through the branches, carrying the stench of death on its breath.
And there, at the edge of a shallow ravine, lay Lily.
Still.
Pale.
Gone.
Azrael stood over her body, motionless. The world around him moved, but he didn't. He Couldn't.
His worn out boots were soaked with mud and dew, but he didn't feel it.
The cold bit into his skin, but it meant nothing.
All he could see was her—her small frame twisted unnaturally, lips tinged blue, the light gone from the eyes he once swore he'd protect with his life.
His pale blue eyes shimmered, rimmed red from nights without sleep.
Tears welled—but didn't fall.
He didn't deserve the release of crying.
He had promised.
He had promised her.
And now she was just another body in the woods, another secret buried beneath silence and fear.
He knelt beside her, trembling hands brushing dirt from her face.
She still looked like Lily—barely—but her warmth was gone. Her laughter, her fear, her trust… all stolen in the night, like a flame smothered in darkness.
His breath hitched.
His voice cracked.
"I told you I'd protect you…" he whispered. "I told you I wouldn't let them take you."
But they had.
And now, the only sound in the forest was the rustling of leaves—and the sound of something breaking inside him.
Azrael didn't scream.
He didn't curse the sky.
He simply lowered his head and pressed his forehead to hers, cold against cold.
In that moment, something inside him died with her.
When he rose again, there was no fear left. No hesitation.
Only one thought remained, sharp and cold as steel:
They will pay for this.