The diner's quiet.
Too quiet for 3 a.m.
Which is funny, really.
Because 3 a.m. is their hour.
The devils' favorite mockery of the Trinity.
A time when things crawl out of the cracks and pretend they're shadows.
I sit in the corner booth, sipping burnt coffee and chewing through a plate of overcooked steak and eggs.
It's terrible.
And I love it.
Funny how death grows fond of mortal things over time.
Food. Music. Silence.
The waitress doesn't ask questions. She never does. She knows my face by now, though not my name.
But something's off tonight.
Not the food. Not the air.
A presence.
I don't need to turn around to feel it—
that soft, sinking pressure of something ancient watching me from afar.
A woman.
She's seated in the farthest booth, cloaked, face lowered, eyes sharp.
I keep eating.
Let her watch.
If she's smart, she'll stay seated.
If not…
Well.
I finish my plate, drop cash on the table, and give the waitress a nod.
Step outside into the dead stillness of night.
The wind smells like rain and roadkill.
The stars don't blink.
I climb into my car. No rush.
The engine rumbles to life with a growl.
I drive.
Ten minutes pass. Then twenty.
The city fades into dark trees and empty highways.
No traffic. No lights.
And yet…
I'm still being followed.
I pull off into the middle of nowhere. No signs. No buildings. Just road, gravel, and black sky.
I step out.
"Alright," I say into the silence, voice low but cutting.
"Let's stop pretending."
The wind howls softly.
Then—
She drops.
From above.
Graceful. Silent. Heavy with presence.
Cloak still wrapped tight. Hair black as crow feathers.
Eyes glowing faintly like dying stars.
"A fallen angel," I say.
My scythe appears in my hand with a whisper of energy.
I twirl it once.
"I haven't deported one of you in a while."
I step forward.
But she lifts a hand.
"Wait," she says.
Her voice isn't afraid.
It's tired.
Like mine.
"I'm not here to fight."
I stop.
That's a first.
She lowers her hood.
Face pale. Beautiful. Worn.
Wings once divine, now torn and scorched. Blackened and broken.
Eyes full of regret.
"My name is Zafrielle," she says.
"And I've been looking for you."
I stare.
"Congratulations," I mutter. "You found me."
"I felt your power during the exorcism," she continues. "The Rift. The seal. The vortex. The way you banished them…"
She trails off, staring at the scythe in my hand like it's something from a story she was never meant to read.
"You're not just an exorcist. You're the Reaper."
"You're late to the party."
She steps forward, slowly, like I might still strike her down.
"I fell from Heaven long ago," she says.
"Not for defiance. Not for pride.
For mercy."
She looks at me, eyes raw.
"I made a mistake. And I've paid for it ever since.
But when I felt you… I knew it.
You're the only one who can see what I've become—
and maybe… remind me what I used to be."
The wind stills.
The night waits.
My grip on the scythe loosens… just slightly.
"Zafrielle," I repeat.
She nods.
I sigh.
"Alright, fallen," I say. "Let's hear your story."
The silence between us feels ancient.
Like a conversation that's been echoing since the dawn of sin.
I lower my scythe—but not all the way.
"So… what do you need from me?"
"And why?"
Her lips tremble slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of speaking truth.
"I have no place left," she says, stepping closer, cloak brushing the ground like ash.
"I don't want to become a demon. I want to be redeemed."
I blink once.
Then chuckle—but there's no humor in it.
"Redemption?"
"That's impossible."
I look her dead in the eye.
"Once you fall… once you ruin your wings, your oath, your place… there's no going back.
Even I know the rules your Almighty set in place."
She doesn't argue.
She nods. Slowly.
"Yes," she whispers. "But mercy is mercy… even if none exists.
I'd rather be somewhere—than nowhere at all."
There's something about the way she says it.
A quiet longing.
Like someone who has begged God in empty cathedrals for centuries… and never gotten an answer.
I turn away.
"No," I say, final. "You don't get to hide behind that. You fell. That was your choice."
She doesn't chase me.
Instead, she speaks softly—earnestly.
"I understand your mistrust. Your place. Your rule.
I've watched you. I know your history. Abel. The first soul. The beginning of your burden."
Her voice gets quieter… but sharper.
"But things aren't the same anymore.
Spirits roam.
Fallen angels have made deals.
Demons walk freely."
She steps forward again.
"I can find them."
That makes me pause.
"What?"
"I'm a fallen angel. Which means I still see what others can't.
I can sense where they gather—those who don't belong.
Demons. Spirits. Fallen like me… worse than me."
I face her fully.
"So you'd betray your own kind?"
"I would," she says, without hesitation.
"Because they betrayed what we were supposed to stand for."
She clenches her fists.
"They mock the Creator.
They twist humans.
They corrupt souls that don't belong to them."
Her voice trembles—not from fear… from conviction.
"They already act like demons.
Me? I know what I've done.
I carry it like a stone around my neck.
But I don't want to burn with them."
I narrow my eyes.
"You think you can find a new place in the world? That you'll earn God's love back?"
She shakes her head.
"No. I know I won't."
"But maybe I can find another way to be right. Even if it's not for Heaven… maybe it's for something else."
A long silence.
The night air grows heavier.
Even the wind stops, waiting for my answer.
I look down at my hand. The mark of the Reaper stares back at me.
Then I look at her—broken wings, sorrowful eyes, and something real behind it all.
She's not lying.
She wants purpose.
Even if it means walking beside Death.
I sigh.
And for the first time in centuries…
I don't say no.
"One chance," I growl.
"You betray me, I send you to the Rift myself."
She nods.
"Understood."
"And you follow my rules. Not Heaven's. Not Hell's. Mine."
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
I walk past her. Toward the car.
"You've got a lot of work to do if you want to make things right, Zafrielle."
"I know."
"Then let's go find the ones who still owe this world an answer."
As we walk, the dust from the road swirls around her bare feet like whispers.
She keeps her distance, but not out of fear.
Out of respect.
Still, I don't trust easily.
"Say your name again," I demand, stopping mid-step.
She looks at me without hesitation.
"Zafrielle," she says quietly, but her voice doesn't waver.
"Once a messenger of light… now something in between."
"Zafrielle," I repeat, rolling the syllables around like an old scar remembered.
"What have you been doing all this time?"
She exhales slowly, as if that question alone carries centuries of exhaustion.
"Wandering. Hiding. Surviving," she says.
"At first I slept in ruins—cathedrals long forgotten. Graveyards. Places where Heaven once whispered."
"Then?"
"Then I learned to live like the mortals. I took what I needed. I worked. Faded into crowds.
I watched the world change around me… but I never changed."
She pauses.
"I never could. My wings may be broken, but they don't let me forget."
She glances at me, the glow of her golden eyes reflecting off the car window.
"I still hear their cries, you know. The ones that fell. The ones that scream. The ones that laugh in the dark."
"And now?" I ask.
"Now I follow you. Because I felt something I haven't felt in a long time."
"Judgment. Justice. Fear… from the damned."
Her voice lowers to a whisper.
"They're scared of you, Adam. Really scared."
I don't respond.
Because she's right.
Far away… in a place not meant for light or grace…
The air burns red.
The stone walls of the chamber pulse with something alive—like the inside of a rotting lung.
A meeting is held.
Not of men.
Not of mortals.
But of them.
The Left Behind. The Cast-Out. The Twisted. The Never Redeemed.
At the head of the table sits a creature cloaked in flame and bone, no face, only teeth.
Beside him, a fallen angel with black feathers soaked in blood. His crown cracked. His hands twitch with rage.
They all felt it.
That ancient energy.
That death ripple.
The Rift had opened again.
And he had returned.
"He's awake," one hisses.
"The Riftwalker walks again."
"He was supposed to stay hidden," snarls another, forked tongue flicking over sharpened teeth.
"He's not supposed to interfere."
"You felt that vortex?" another whispers from the shadows. "He cast an entire legion into the void—without breaking a sweat."
They fall silent.
Until the crowned fallen angel leans forward.
"You're all afraid."
He grins.
"Good."
"Because we should be."
He slams his fist onto the obsidian table, cracking it with raw force.
"Adam Doore Rift has returned.
The Reaper is moving again."
All eyes fall to him.
"What do we do?" one demon breathes.
A pause.
Then the crowned one answers with a wicked smile.
"We watch him. We find the girl. The one with him."
"And when the time comes…"
He bares his jagged teeth.
"We remind Death that even he can bleed."
Back to the road…
Zafrielle turns to me.
"They know, don't they?"
"They do," I say coldly.
"They'll come for us."
I open the car door.
"Let them."