The world was shifting, and war loomed ever closer.
While Angelo trained relentlessly, sharpening his abilities with single-minded focus, darker, unseen forces stirred in the shadows. The beings that resembled angels had unleashed their puppets—humans twisted, brainwashed, and bent to their will. These agents, disguised as ordinary people, infiltrated military bases across every continent, including Fort Blackspear.
At first, the agents paid little attention to the facility. But everything changed the moment one of them crossed paths with Angelo in a corridor. The instant their eyes met, an unnatural chill slithered up his spine, as though staring into an abyss that threatened to consume him whole. Panic surged, yet he forced a calm mask, walking on as if nothing had happened.
Later, alone, he reported to the angels through the ethereal link they shared. Through his eyes, they saw Angelo for the first time. Their reaction was instant and sharp: "That is the one. Watch him. Learn everything." Fear gripped the agents, but obedience held stronger. They followed Angelo from a distance, eavesdropping on conversations, noting patterns, memorizing his schedule, and cataloging his abilities.
It didn't take long for them to learn of the impending assault against the Watchers—the very creatures the angels quietly despised. Angelo was preparing for war. Now, so were they.
General Pierce summoned Angelo to his office. He had grown respectful of the boy—though he still had little understanding of what truly lay within him. He had seen the strange, unshakable determination in Angelo's eyes, but the true extent of his power remained a mystery.
"Come in," Pierce said, gruff but not unkind. Angelo entered with the same precise, measured gait he always used, like he belonged in the uniformed world even if the world didn't belong to him.
"How's the preparation going? Are you ready?" Pierce asked, voice sharp, as if he could peel back Angelo's face and read whatever lay beneath.
Angelo nodded. "Yes. I'm ready."
Pierce's mouth twitched into a brief, approving grin. "That's more like it. We launch the day after tomorrow. Any objections?"
"No, sir," Angelo answered, calm and clear.
Pierce turned back to his paperwork. "You are dismissed."
Angelo didn't move. He kept his eyes on Pierce, and called. "General."
Pierce didn't look up, still working. "What is it?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir."
The words stopped Pierce cold. He looked at Angelo, surprised. "What?"
"You're the one who convinced my father to visit me that day, weren't you? I'm grateful for that."
Guilt hit Pierce like cold water. He stood and stared out over the base, the outline of the perimeter fence a dark line against the horizon. "Boy—you need to know something," he said slowly. Angelo frowned but listened. Pierce's voice was tight. "The reason I brought your father that day… the higher‑ups decided to use your family to convince you to work with us. I was the unlucky one who had to do the dirty work."
Silence stretched. Angelo said nothing at first. Then, after a long breath: "It's fine. I'm still grateful. Because of you, he talked to me."
Pierce did not turn. He watched the edge of the base until his jaw hardened. "We'll keep your family safe. Go rest while you can—you'll need it." When Angelo left, Pierce's voice dropped to a hard whisper for no one but the room to hear: "Those ugly sons of bitches are going to pay for the lives they've taken."
Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon—painting the sky in bruised reds and purples—Angelo found himself standing outside the room where his family was being housed. Two armed guards stood at attention, their expressions unreadable as they acknowledged him with a curt nod.
The air felt thick. Heavy. Angelo's chest tightened with an emotion he didn't have a name for.
One of the guards stepped forward, voice cool but respectful.
"Do you want me to inform them that you're here?"
Angelo hesitated, eyes fixed on the door. Everything he hadn't said—everything he still wanted to say—pressed against him like a weight. But the voices inside him, louder and darker than they had ever been, slithered through his mind.
They won't accept a monster like you.
You've already lost them.
They hate you.
His fists clenched. It didn't silence the voice, but it gave him something to hold on to.
"No… It's fine. I'll visit some other day."
He turned to leave.
But the door creaked open.
Alex and Olivia stepped out—probably for some fresh air—and the sudden shift in the atmosphere made Angelo's heart stutter. He froze. Then slowly, he turned back toward them.
Silence stretched between them, so long and so suffocating it felt like it belonged to another lifetime.
Angelo managed a small, fragile smile—broken around the edges—as if hoping it would prove he was still the same Angelo they knew.
Olivia opened her mouth… but nothing came out. Her eyes flickered with guilt, with fear, with something else he couldn't name. Then her gaze dropped. She couldn't look at him.
She didn't say a word.
Alex did.
His glare was sharp enough to cut.
"Why the hell did you come back?"
Angelo flinched—just a tiny twitch of his shoulders—but he held his ground. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
"I didn't mean to upset anyone. I just… wanted to see you all before I leave for the mission."
Alex's expression darkened, twisting with pure, festering anger.
"You're going on a mission? Good. We hope you die out there."
The words hit harder than any weapon.
Then—crack.
Olivia's slap echoed through the hallway, sharp and sudden. Alex staggered, shocked, a red imprint already blooming across his cheek.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Angelo could only stare, breath caught, heart sinking under the weight of something he didn't know how to fight.
Olivia turned without a word and disappeared back inside. The door closed behind her with a soft, final thud. Alex followed, eyes still wide, and the door shut again—leaving Angelo alone with the cold night.
He didn't move. Didn't raise a hand. Didn't even blink.
He just stood there as the truth settled over him like frost.
See? They don't want you back. One of them hopes you die.
The other couldn't even look at you.
You are becoming less human by the day.
He tried to drown the voices—tried and failed. His heart ached, sharp and hollow, and the world around him seemed to dim to gray. His shoulders sagged. His vision blurred. His knees nearly buckled.
The two guards exchanged a look—pity, fear, sympathy. Something human.
"Are you alright?" one asked quietly.
Angelo didn't answer at first. He forced himself upright, drew in a long breath that did little to steady him, and finally said, voice tired to the bone:
"Yeah… I'm fine. Just make sure they're safe. That's all I care about."
And with that, he turned and walked away—toward the storm waiting for him, toward the war that was already calling his name.
The unknown waited in the dark.
And somewhere, step by step, Angelo's humanity slipped further away.