Azrael Eisenhardt had always suspected that the universe bore him a quiet grudge. Not the kind that burned like a supernova or shook the ground beneath him. No, it was subtler — little hints, small ironies, and endless minor inconveniences that piled up into the kind of life no one could call "smooth."
He liked to think of himself as careful. Reasonable. A man who could walk across a sidewalk without incident, order coffee without spilling it, and generally survive Mondays with dignity. On paper, it sounded simple. In reality, it was a full-contact sport that he lost on a regular basis.
He had a small apartment in the city, the kind where the walls creaked at night and the radiator hummed like it was narrating his life. He filled it with books he never finished, sketches he would never frame, and playlists that seemed to evolve without his permission. He had hobbies that were mostly solitary — photography, journaling, and arguing with the toaster about why his bagel was never perfectly crisp.
Today, like most Tuesdays, he woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window. It was soft, persistent, and oddly comforting, like the city itself was whispering, you're still alive, somehow. He dressed quickly, threw on a jacket, and tucked his notebook into his bag.
As he walked, he considered the small things: the barista who always spelled his name wrong, the way pigeons waddled in carefully choreographed chaos, and whether he should finally text the girl he'd been thinking about for weeks. Mostly, he thought about nothing at all, letting the ordinary hum of life wash over him.
The park was quiet. Early morning walkers, a few runners, and the distant bark of a dog made it feel like a tiny, breathing world inside the larger city. Azrael kept his headphones on, listening to a song he didn't remember adding to his playlist but had loved for reasons he couldn't articulate. Music, he thought, was one of the few things that made the universe seem coherent.
And then the universe decided it had been too quiet for far too long.
An eagle — majestic, regal, and entirely unconcerned with Azrael's mortal existence — appeared overhead. It carried something, and at first, he thought it was a branch or a bag someone had dropped. Then he realized, with increasing horror, that it was a turtle.
Yes. A turtle.
He froze, heart rate spiking. "What… what are you doing?" he muttered, because apparently the universe had no intention of giving him a dignified exit.
The eagle glided higher, and for a moment, Azrael thought perhaps the creature would change its mind. Perhaps it would drop the turtle somewhere harmless. Perhaps the cosmos could be merciful, if only for a second.
But no.
Physics, fate, and probability had conspired against him. The turtle plummeted toward his head like a small, armored meteor, carrying with it the crushing weight of absurdity.
"Seriously?" Azrael groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. He staggered, blinking as stars formed behind his eyelids. Somewhere, a squirrel squeaked in protest, and a pigeon fluffed its feathers, clearly judging him.
He tried to move. Step aside. Plead with fate. Negotiate with the eagle. But the universe ignored him, as it always did, and the turtle landed with devastating precision.
The impact was… surprisingly loud. And final.
Azrael Eisenhardt's life ended there, on a damp Tuesday morning, under the weight of a turtle dropped by an eagle that had absolutely no sense of timing.
There was no cinematic crescendo, no heroic last words, no moment of enlightenment. There was only absurdity and silence.
He collapsed, rain soaking into his jacket, and in that moment, the city continued its business entirely oblivious to the fact that a man had just been defeated by wildlife and gravity.
Yet, as he lay there, Azrael couldn't help but think, of course it would end like this. It was perfectly in character with the universe he'd lived in — cruelly indifferent, occasionally poetic, and always hilarious when he least wanted it to be.
In quieter moments before the accident, he often mused on the peculiarities of life. The way coincidences stacked themselves like poorly shuffled cards, the way people clung to hope even when it seemed meaningless, the way a song could transport him to a memory that wasn't even his own. All of that flashed now in fragments, a brief, dizzying montage as the world tilted and darkened around him.
He thought of his apartment, his notebooks, his coffee-stained morning routines. He thought of the small kindnesses he'd experienced, the fleeting moments of joy — a smile from a stranger, the smell of rain on asphalt, the sound of a dog barking in the distance.
And then he thought about how ridiculous this death was.
"I can't… really be dying like this," he wheezed, one hand clutching his skull.
The eagle circled once more, as if taking pride in its work, then glided away, leaving only the turtle behind. It lay there, completely unharmed, like some divine punchline to a joke only the universe understood.
Azrael's vision blurred. Stars — or maybe the clouds themselves — wavered. The music in his headphones warped into a slow, eerie hum. Somewhere, he imagined the cosmos watching and sighing.
"Well," he thought weakly, "I always did prefer an entrance over an exit. Guess that's… reversed."
He tried to chuckle, but the sound never left his lips. The world dimmed.
And then there was nothing.
Not even the faintest echo of complaint. Not even a whisper of protest.
Azrael Eisenhardt, human, mortal, entirely ridiculous, was gone.
Yet in that darkness, something lingered. A tiny spark. A flicker of thought. A heartbeat of curiosity.
It was faint. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.
And in the vast, indifferent silence of the universe, it waited.
A human mind, stubborn and peculiar, refusing entirely to be extinguished by gravity or absurdity.
Perhaps, somewhere beyond comprehension, the universe itself paused. Perhaps it leaned in slightly, curious.
Because even the smallest spark of imagination is dangerous.
Even the tiniest flicker can echo through eternity.
And in that moment, Azrael's human story ended…
But something new, something yet unnamed, was beginning.