A knock is heard on the door.
Azrael, sitting at his work desk, looks toward it.
The clock hanging on the side wall shows 1:13 a.m.
The expression on his face shows he doesn't expect any visitors tonight.
He raises his voice, asking with suspicion,
"Who?"
The visitor replies with another knock—louder than before.
Azrael has some idea who it might be.
You can tell from his expression.
He slides his drawer shut and slowly grabs his revolver.
The dim candlelight on the desk flickers.
The sound of rain—which was melodic just a minute ago—is now adding a quiet horror to the room.
"I already did what you asked me!
I already clipped my wings!"
A memory resurfaces—
The time he accepted to play their game.
The day he gave up everything just to survive.
May 4th, 1984.
His video—played on those black-and-white TVs and even some colored ones—spread like wildfire.
They branded him a liar.
He faced his supporters—now turned against him.
His haters demanded the death penalty.
The media, his relatives, even those who once believed in him...
All of them turned.
Some people tried proving his innocence.
But they were humiliated—silenced.
Maybe that's the only reason he wasn't executed on the spot.
Maybe the government had already planned something.
Or maybe it was those other groups.
But now—
Someone is at his door.
And maybe they've come to end it all.
Azrael is certain.
He's connecting the dots.
He's angry at himself—biting his own lip.
Not because he's afraid to die…
But because he feels helpless.
Because the thought of letting them live in peace burns more than the thought of death.
He grips the revolver even tighter, waiting for the person to open the door.
The veins in his hands look like they're about to burst from the pressure.
Each second makes his breath heavier.
But he doesn't have to wait long—
The man has already decided to break his way in.
The clock shows 1:14.
From the window, the rain falls heavier....
Harsh breathing.
Azrael is on the floor now, his revolver lying just out of reach.
He's been shot in the leg and shoulder. His other arm is holding his shoulder, leaning against the foot of his desk.
The man from the street earlier now stands over him, his shadowy figure towering above Azrael.
"Even your weapon has betrayed you," he mocks.
Azrael can't respond—his only thought is death.
The man points the revolver at Azrael's head but doesn't shoot.
He leaves the room, only to return a moment later with a bottle of gasoline.
He pours it around the room, covering Azrael too.
He pulls a lighter from his long black coat.
Azrael looks at him, the man's face cold, not a word spoken.
But Azrael knows—this isn't pity.
This is the look of someone who takes pleasure in killing and torturing.
As he exits the room, he throws the burning lighter into the room.
Azrael scrambles to remove his gasoline-soaked clothes, crouching near his desk. He tries to open the window, but the fire is already spreading.
The heavy rain outside echoes around him.
As he opens the window, two gunshots ring out—louder now.
Azrael doesn't dare look outside.
After a quiet minute, the door opens. A man steps into the room.
Azrael scans him from head to toe.
It's not the killer from before.
This man is different—he's trying to blend in, and his clothing is well-chosen, but Azrael isn't fooled.
The man's hands are bloody.
Azrael, now in his underwear, observes him like a hawk.
His chest is bleeding—he's been shot. He's not going to last much longer.
One hand presses against his chest, while the other holds the door frame.
He looks at Azrael and mutters,
"i believe y-- l-ve… ."
His voice breaking ....
He collapses,.....the fire hasn't spread too wildly yet.
Azrael jumps up with his one good foot, stumbling over the dead body.
Peeking outside, he sees the man in the long black coat is already dead.
Blood drips slowly from his head.
"A headshot," Azrael murmurs