The room was silent except for the rattling of the wind through the broken
window. Dust floated lazily in the pale moonlight.
Ashley stirred. Her body twitched once, twice, before her eyes opened wide —
two glowing white orbs piercing the darkness. She sat up slowly, strands of
black hair falling across her face.
Her throat was dry. The kind of dryness that scraped. She reached for the
chipped cup sitting beside her sleeping bag. It was half-filled with stale
water, but she didn't care. She gulped it down, tilting her head back until the
last drop slid down her throat.
Clink. The cup hit the floor.
Then — a sound.
It wasn't footsteps. Not breathing. It was heavier, sharper, like the air
itself had been sliced open. Something descended outside with a rush of wind,
then silence.
Ashley's lips curled into a tired smirk.
"Oh… you again."
A shadow stretched across the doorway. Broad. Powerful. Then a figure
stepped into the ruin of the house, ducking slightly beneath the rotting frame.
An angel.
Not the kind sung about in churches, but something darker, older. His wings
were vast and feathered — but black as ash, each feather shimmering faintly as
though soaked in oil. His eyes burned faintly gold, cutting through the dark.
"You," Ashley said, pulling her hood over her head as if to shield herself
from his gaze. "Back to stalk me, huh?"
The angel let the silence hang before his voice broke it — deep, smooth, but
carrying the weight of thunder.
"You should really get a better place to live in."
Ashley laughed once, bitter and hollow.
"This dump suits me just fine. Besides… rent's cheap."
He stepped further inside, his wings folding close with a sound like knives
dragging on stone.
"You think this place hides you. But it doesn't. Not from me. Not from what's
coming."
Ashley stood slowly, brushing dust from her hoodie. She tilted her head,
eyes narrowed.
"What's coming?"
The angel stared at her for a long moment.
"Your choice," he said. "And choices have consequences."
Ashley snorted. "Cryptic as ever. You angels ever talk straight?"
The angel smirked faintly, his expression both amused and tired.
"If we did… mortals wouldn't survive the truth."
Ashley's smile faltered. She glanced at the crumpled envelope on the table —
the one that said she was chosen. Her fists clenched.
"You here to drag me to that Academy too?"
The angel tilted his head. His black wings spread slightly, the feathers
brushing the walls like whispers.
"Not yet. I'm here to see… if you're ready."
Ashley stepped forward, her white eyes blazing in the dark.
"Then test me."
The angel's smile widened, sharp as a blade.
"Oh, I intend to."
The angel moved past her, wings dragging shadows across the ruined walls.
His boots echoed as he stepped into the side room, half-swallowed by the
darkness.
Ashley tilted her head, watching. Her lips curled.
"You think you can sneak up on me?"
The silence thickened.
Then, without warning, she whispered an ancient word — not English, not
Latin, but older.
"Šu qāt ilāni qaddīšu ana šubti."
The air cracked like lightning.
Her fist shot out, glowing faintly with white fire.
The fallen angel appeared behind her — but she was faster. Her punch
connected with his palm. For a split second, their hands locked, and both of
them burned. Flesh seared, light and shadow warring in the space
between them.
The angel hissed and released her.
Ashley stepped back, shaking out her fist. Her eyes glimmered.
"So… how did I do?"
The angel stared at his smoking hand, his expression unreadable.
"Good," he admitted. "But not that good. Where did you learn 'Holy Hand of
God'?"
Ashley smirked, brushing dust from her hoodie sleeve.
"Why? Surprised I know it?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Where did you learn that language? Akkadian hasn't
been spoken in centuries. I thought Lucifer himself hunted down everyone who
still knew it."
Ashley leaned against the doorframe, casual but sharp.
"Yeah. I have my connections."
The angel chuckled softly, wings shifting. "Interesting."
Ashley pushed off the frame and rolled her shoulders.
"Alright, you ready for round two?"
He shook his head. "Not today. I didn't come here to fight."
She raised a brow. "Then why are you here?"
The angel's voice dropped low, like thunder rumbling beneath the earth.
"The academy you think you're going to… it isn't what you think. It's just a
building. A mask. Hidden in New York."
Ashley's eyes flicked toward the envelope lying on the table, the word ACADEMY
burning in her mind. She frowned.
"What do you mean? What's inside that place?"
The angel spread his wings, feathers rustling like whispers.
"You tell me… what am I?"
Ashley studied him, her pale eyes narrowing. She exhaled slowly.
"Guidance."
He gave the faintest nod.
"I'm only here to tell you one thing. Your father needs you."
Her jaw clenched.
"No."
"Yes."
"I'm not going there. I'm not going to see him. I'm not going to do
anything." Her voice cracked, then hardened again. "And he's not my father. My
father's dead."
The angel stepped closer, his presence heavy, suffocating.
"Keep denying it. One day, you'll agree to it."
Ashley glared. "You done?"
"Almost." His tone shifted, sly and sharp. "Since you don't like your father
too much… maybe you'd prefer something else. A job."
Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of job?"
The angel smirked, and then his body blurred. In an instant, he was gone.
The only sign he'd been there at all was the faint shimmer of black feathers
drifting in the air — and words burned into the ceiling board above her.
An address.
Ashley tilted her head back, reading it slowly. A grin tugged at the corner
of her mouth.
"Well… that's interesting."
She gathered her bag from the floor, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped
out of the house into the night air. The grass crunched under her boots as the
wind carried smoke across the fields.
She muttered to herself, half a laugh, half a curse.
"I hate fallen angels."
And without looking back, she disappeared into the shadows.
The night in Halworth pulsed with danger. A boy sprinted across the cracked
street, clutching a battered suitcase to his chest. His shoes slapped against
the pavement as he darted into a narrow alley, breath ragged. He dove behind a
rusted trash bin, pressing himself into the shadows.
Moments later, four men in black suits stormed into the alley. Their eyes
scanned the dark.
"Where'd he go?" one demanded.
"I think he went right," another muttered.
"No, left," a third snapped.
The leader raised his hand. "Enough. Split up. We'll smoke him out."
Their footsteps scattered, echoing through the city's veins. The boy peered
out, clutching the suitcase tighter. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. When
the last shadow faded, he bolted, darting back into the open.
"Oi! There he is!" one of the men shouted.
The chase reignited. The boy tore down the street, then hurled himself up
the side of a building, climbing between two walls like a cornered rat
desperate for sky. His fingers burned, his legs screamed, but he pulled himself
onto the rooftop and staggered to his feet.
From above, he looked down at them with a wild grin.
"You'll never catch me!" he shouted, the accent sharp in his voice.
"Catch that little bastard!" the leader roared.
Two men clambered up after him, while another barged into the building below
to take the stairs. The boy kept moving, sprinting across rooftops, leaping
from one crumbling edge to the next.
One of the pursuers lunged too far and misjudged the gap. With a scream, he
plummeted, his body crashing onto the pavement below.
The boy froze, peering over the ledge, eyes wide.
"Bloody hell… didn't mean to kill him," he muttered, almost to himself.
Shaking it off, he vaulted to another rooftop, then another, until he
slipped through a window on the tenth building. Inside, he darted down a
corridor and slid into a janitor's closet. He crouched among buckets and mops,
listening as footsteps thundered past, searching, always searching.
When the coast was clear, he slipped out the back door, flagged down a taxi,
and tumbled into the back seat.
The driver glanced at him in the mirror.
"Where to?"
"Candy Forest Street," the boy panted, clutching the suitcase.
The driver gave a low chuckle.
"You're one of the orphans, ain't ya?"
The boy frowned.
"Yeah… what's it to you, mate?"
"Nothing," the driver said, eyes still on the road. "Just don't see many
Brits around here. Halworth chews people up."
The boy smirked faintly.
"Bollocks. Halworth's hard for anyone."
The driver let out a short laugh.
"Fair enough."
When the taxi rolled to a stop, the boy pulled out some crumpled notes and
shoved them forward.
"Here."
The driver waved a hand.
"Keep it."
"Nah, mate," the boy said firmly, pressing the money into his hand. "Take
it."
The driver met his eyes in the mirror, then gave a small nod.
"…Alright. Good luck out there, kid."
The boy slipped out into the night.
He made his way into a narrow alley between two looming buildings, where
makeshift tents lined the walls like a hidden city of the forgotten. His own
shelter sat tucked at the back, patched together with black plastic bags.
Inside, his dog wagged its tail eagerly. The boy crouched, ruffling its fur.
"Got us something, mate," he whispered.
He set the suitcase down and flicked the latches. As the lid cracked open, a
cold blue light spilled out, washing over his face, glowing brighter and
brighter—
And then it cut to black.