EZRAEL:
The world was still trembling from her touch.
Nara's reflection—those eyes that had burned gold—haunted the air even after the light died. The mirror no longer shimmered, but its silence carried a warning. Something ancient had answered her, and now it was listening.
She didn't know it yet, but the seal was gone. The moment she touched that mural, Heaven's balance shifted. The earth beneath Lagos—this city of smoke and traffic and prayers muttered between generator hums—had become a fault line between worlds.
And I was standing on it, bleeding divinity into its soil.
Her hands still trembled where she'd caught me. The scent of her skin was paint and sweat and fear—mortal and miraculous. I should have pulled away, left her before the bond deepened further. But even after centuries, I had never learned how to leave her.
Her heartbeat was a drum inside my skull, louder than the faint hum of the air conditioner fighting the Lagos heat. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked like the surface of a lake about to give way.
"Start talking, Ezrael. No more riddles."
I had faced archangels in war, demons in judgment, and the long, merciless silence of exile. None of it frightened me like the sound of her asking for truth.
I sank to the floor beside her, the marble cold beneath my palms. The mural's faint glow still lingered under the cracked plaster—divine script burning faintly like embers refusing to die.
"Everything you've seen since last night," I said, my voice rough, ancient, "it's real. I'm not… human. Not in the way you understand it."
She gave a bitter laugh. "That much I figured out."
Lightning flashed outside, staining the gallery windows with white fire. For a heartbeat, my reflection flickered—wings, halo, ruin—and then I was only a man again. A man trying to explain the unimaginable.
"I was called a Watcher," I said. "One of many sent to guard humankind when the world was still young. We were meant to observe, never interfere. To see but not touch." I looked up at her, and the word touch burned in my mouth like confession. "But I broke that law."
Nara's eyes narrowed. "You mean—what? You fell in love?"
Her tone mocked, but her pulse stuttered. She wanted to believe it was madness. I almost wished it were.
"Yes." My voice was soft, barely audible over the thunder rolling in from the Lagoon. "And for that, I fell. They stripped my halo, shattered my wings, and sealed me away in darkness—until you woke me."
She stared at me like she was trying to find the seams between truth and insanity. "This is insane," she whispered. "You're telling me you're some kind of—what—angel?"
"Once." I swallowed. "Now I'm what remains of one."
Silence stretched between us, thick and unbreathable. Outside, a generator coughed to life, filling the air with a low hum that felt too human, too grounding for the words I'd just spoken.
Finally, she stood, pacing in uneven circles. "You're expecting me to believe I just… resurrected a celestial being? That I'm supposed to—what—thank you for dragging me into whatever cosmic mess this is?"
I forced myself upright, pain clawing at my ribs. "No. I don't expect gratitude. Only understanding. You touched the mural because it called to you. Because it remembered you."
"Remembered me?" She stopped pacing. "Ezrael, I'm an art restorer, not a reincarnated priestess."
Her words were sharp, but her hands betrayed her. They trembled when she brushed her locs away from her face. Fear, disbelief, defiance—they warred inside her, bright as lightning behind her eyes.
I stepped closer. "You carry a spark within you—divine blood woven into mortal flesh. It's why the seal responded to your touch. Why I could wake at all."
She shook her head. "Stop."
"Nara—"
"Stop." She turned on me, voice breaking. "You sound like a madman. And I'm standing here listening because—because something in me wants to believe you, and that terrifies me more than any of this supernatural bullshit."
The word terrifies hit something deep in me. I had seen fear in thousands of faces, but never hers. Not like this.
"I didn't want you dragged into it," I said quietly. "But they'll come for you now. Both sides will. Heaven will call you anomaly. Hell will call you opportunity. Either way, they'll hunt what they don't understand."
Her laugh was wet, shaky. "You're talking about Heaven and Hell like they're rival gangs."
"In some ways, they are."
I shouldn't have smiled, but the absurdity drew one out of me. Her eyes flicked to my mouth, then away, as if catching herself wanting something she shouldn't.
The bond between us pulsed—alive, electric. I felt her heartbeat stutter against mine even though we weren't touching. A dangerous reminder: the more we spoke, the stronger the tether became.
I should have stayed silent. But I'd been silent for centuries, and silence had killed more than truth ever could.
"Nara, what Adanne said—about you awakening me—it wasn't a metaphor. When the seal broke, part of my essence bound itself to you again. That bond can't be undone."
She froze. "You're saying I'm… stuck with you?"
"I'm saying if I leave, you'll die."
Her eyes flashed. "Convenient."
"It's not a threat."
"Then what is it?"
"Reality." I met her gaze. "You woke me. That means we're bound. If I walk away now, the things that followed Adanne through the Veil will find you first. And you won't survive them."
She was silent for a long time. The rain started again, hammering against the gallery windows like fists. Lagos thunder rolled through the walls, as if the city itself disapproved of this conversation.
Finally, she whispered, "I should be running. Calling the police. Screaming. But instead, I'm standing here listening to you."
"Because part of you remembers," I said. The truth came out before I could stop it.
Her head snapped toward me. "Remembers what?"
You, I thought. Us. The first life. The fire. The fall.
But I couldn't tell her that. Not yet. Not while she was already teetering on the edge of disbelief.
So I lied. "Nothing. Just… instinct."
Her expression hardened. "You're still hiding something."
"I'm protecting you."
"From what?"
"The truth." I smiled faintly, though it felt like bleeding. "Some truths are too heavy for the newly awakened."
She scoffed, stepping away. "You sound like a preacher and a liar at the same time."
"Both can be true."
For a heartbeat, her anger cracked—and beneath it, I saw it: the flicker of something fragile. Curiosity. Wonder. The part of her that wanted to touch the mural again, just to feel the light sing through her veins.
"Tell me everything," she said finally. "All of it."
"I can't."
"Then get out."
The words struck like a blade. "Nara—"
"Get. Out." Her voice was trembling, but the command in it was real. "You brought this nightmare into my life, and now you want me to trust you? I don't even know what you are."
I took a step back—not because she frightened me, but because I could feel her fear, raw and pulsing through the bond. Every tremor in her hands echoed in mine. Every quick breath tightened my own chest.
"I'm what happens," I said softly, "when love breaks Heaven."
Her eyes widened—not with belief, but with the ache of understanding something she didn't want to understand.
Outside, thunder rolled again, closer this time. The lights flickered, and the mirror caught the flash—two silhouettes, one human, one not, bound by something neither could name.
The silence between us thickened until even the hum of the generator seemed afraid to intrude. Nara stood framed by the fractured light filtering through the rain-smeared windows—half in shadow, half in the pale morning sun. The city outside was waking, but inside this gallery, time had stopped.
"I broke Heaven," I whispered. "And Heaven broke me in return."
She folded her arms tightly across her chest, like she could hold herself together through sheer will. "You keep saying things like that. Like poetry instead of facts."
"Facts," I repeated, almost laughing at the word. "Very well." I lifted a trembling hand, letting the sleeve fall back. Silver sigils shimmered beneath the skin of my wrist, faint and shifting like constellations trapped under flesh. "These are the remnants of my halo—the punishment etched into me when I fell."
Nara's gaze followed the light tracing my veins. I felt her disbelief waver, replaced by reluctant awe. "They look like scars," she murmured.
"They are." I let the glow fade. "Every mark is a law broken, a vow betrayed, a soul I failed to save."
"And you expect me to believe I'm part of that story?"
"No," I said. "But whether you believe or not won't change that every shadow in this city now knows your name."
Her laugh was brittle. "Fantastic. So not only am I crazy, I'm a target too."
I wanted to touch her then—to close the space between us, to remind her that she wasn't alone—but the last time I reached for her without permission, Heaven itself had burned for it. I had learned that lesson too well.
Instead, I said quietly, "I'll leave if you truly wish it. But if I go, they'll come for you by dusk."
Her eyes flicked toward the shattered mural, then back to me. "You're manipulating me."
"I'm warning you."
"Same difference."
She turned away, arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the words. Her voice softened. "You said we're… bound. What does that even mean?"
"It means," I said slowly, "our souls recognize each other. The bond forms when one awakens the other—it's… instinctive. Ancient. I can feel your heartbeat as if it were my own."
Her head jerked toward me, disbelief colliding with panic. "You can feel—?"
I hesitated. "When you're afraid, the air around you tightens. When you breathe too fast, my lungs ache. When you're near me, the bond hums."
A pause. "When you're angry, it burns."
The faintest color rose to her cheeks. "Then you must be on fire right now."
"I've been burning since the moment you touched the mural."
She exhaled sharply. "You really should stop saying things like that."
"I've never learned how." I let the truth sit between us, sharp as glass. "You asked for honesty. That's what it sounds like."
For a moment, she said nothing. Just stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes distant—as if listening to something only she could hear.
When she finally spoke, her voice was small. "I don't know what's happening to me."
"You're awakening," I said. "The light in you—it's not just mine. It's yours. Always has been."
"Then why do I feel like I'm breaking?"
"Because transformation always feels like ruin before it becomes rebirth."
Her eyes glistened, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall. "You talk like you've rehearsed this speech a thousand times."
"I have," I admitted. "Across centuries."
She turned sharply. "Stop doing that."
"What?"
"Speaking in riddles. Talking like you know me." Her voice rose, trembling on the edge of fury and fear. "You don't. I don't care who you think I was or what cosmic drama you're trapped in—I'm not her. I'm Nara. I restore paintings, I pay rent, I forget to charge my generator card half the time. I'm not part of your myth."
I closed my eyes, feeling the ache of every life that had ended with her saying those same words in different tongues. "You are," I said softly. "You always are."
She stared at me for a heartbeat that felt like eternity—and then she turned away.
NARA:
The thing about truth is—it doesn't come as a revelation. It comes as exhaustion.
I stood there, staring at the mural's faint shimmer and trying to breathe like a normal human being. My body ached. My mind was a mess. And Ezrael—this impossible, broken, infuriating man—was looking at me like he'd seen my soul centuries before I was born.
Outside, Lagos kept living. I could hear danfos honking through the rain, vendors shouting over the storm, someone cursing their generator two streets away. The world hadn't stopped for my existential crisis.
"I just need… space," I said finally. "Time to think."
"You can have both," he said. "But I can't leave the building. Not yet."
"Why not?"
His expression was unreadable. "Because the moment I step beyond these walls, they'll sense it. They'll know exactly where you are."
I pressed a hand to my forehead. "So let me get this straight—you're saying the safest option is having a fallen angel crash on my couch?"
His mouth twitched. "Do you have a couch?"
I almost laughed despite myself. "You're unbelievable."
"That's one word for it."
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Fine. You can stay—for now. But don't touch anything. And don't hover while I'm thinking."
"Understood."
He moved to the corner of the gallery, every step measured like he was afraid to disturb the air. The silence that followed wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't empty either. It was… watchful. I could feel him there—like a current under my skin, a second pulse synced with mine.
The idea should have terrified me. Maybe it did. But it also made something deep inside me hum, a recognition I couldn't name.
I busied myself cleaning shattered glass from the floor, pretending I didn't feel his gaze tracing every movement. I'd lived my life surrounded by art, by remnants of people trying to immortalize beauty before it decayed. Now one of those remnants was breathing beside me, and nothing about it felt beautiful. It felt dangerous. Too alive.
When I finally turned back to him, he was watching the mural again, expression carved from regret.
"Why do you keep looking at it like that?" I asked.
"Because it used to be home."
His voice was low, almost reverent. "The symbols you see—it's the story of my fall. And yours."
"Mine?" I swallowed. "You keep saying ours like it's some shared tragedy."
"It is."
I shook my head, laughing without humor. "You should really stop talking."
He smiled faintly. "And yet you keep listening."
"I'm trying to decide whether to throw you out or make you tea."
His eyes softened. "Tea would be kind."
I rolled mine. "You're lucky I was raised right."
He inclined his head, almost formal. "Then I'm lucky indeed."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The rain softened, and the faint scent of wet earth drifted in through the cracked windows. Something shifted in the air—tension easing, just enough to breathe.
He looked exhausted, shadows pooling under his eyes like bruises that time itself couldn't heal. Against every instinct, I found myself whispering, "You can rest on the couch. Just—don't die or sprout wings again or whatever."
He gave the ghost of a smile. "I'll try to behave."
"Do fallen angels even sleep?"
"Not peacefully," he said. "But I'll pretend."
I watched him lie down, his body unnervingly still, his silver-marked skin catching the weak light. For a man claiming to be centuries old, he looked breakable in that moment—like something divine that had been dragged too long through mortal dust.
I should have been afraid.
Instead, I found myself whispering, "What if I believe you?"
His eyes opened, luminous even in the dim. "Then we're already in danger."
Night crept in before I realized how long I'd been sitting on the gallery floor, surrounded by half-cleaned glass and unanswered questions. The power had gone hours ago—NEPA doing what NEPA did best—and the only light came from the storm outside, lightning flickering through the rain like a restless camera flash.
Ezrael hadn't moved. He lay on my couch, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Sometimes his skin shimmered with hidden light, like starlight trapped under water. Other times, he looked painfully human—too human, like a man drowning quietly in dreams he couldn't wake from.
I tried sketching to calm my mind. Charcoal lines, faint and quick—his outline, the ruined mural, the reflection I'd seen in the mirror. My hands moved automatically, but every stroke felt haunted. I kept erasing his eyes and redrawing them, never getting them right. Too much light. Too much grief.
When thunder rolled again, he stirred. His eyes opened slowly—silver and black, old as grief.
"You should sleep," he murmured.
I snorted softly. "You first."
He gave that half-smile that shouldn't have made my stomach twist. "I don't sleep. I remember."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is."
He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. The dim light carved shadows across his face, making him look like a sculpture half-forgotten by time.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Now," he said, "we wait for morning. If nothing comes for you by dawn, we'll find a safer place to hide."
"Hide? From what? Heaven's debt collectors?"
His mouth curved slightly. "Something like that."
I wanted to keep joking, but there was something in his tone—something too solemn. So I just nodded and leaned my head back against the wall.
Outside, Lagos kept humming its endless song—rain, thunder, the occasional generator sputtering to life. Ordinary sounds. Grounding sounds. But beneath them, I could feel something else: a hum beneath the hum, like the city was holding its breath.
Hours later, I must have dozed off, because the shrill buzz of my phone tore me out of half-sleep.
I jolted upright. The sound was jarring against the storm's rhythm. Ezrael was on his feet instantly, eyes sharp, every trace of fatigue gone.
"Don't answer," he said, voice low.
"It could be Chiamaka," I said, fumbling for the phone. The screen glowed: UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Ezrael's gaze darkened. "Or it could be someone who shouldn't know you're alive."
"Only one way to find out."
"Nara—"
But I'd already swiped to answer.
Static. Then a breath—ragged, close to the mic.
"Nara?"
I froze. The voice was male, gravelly with age and smoke. Familiar in a way that reached back years I'd buried under art shows and therapy sessions.
"…Uncle Tade?"
Ezrael stiffened. "Who is that?"
"My father's old partner," I whispered.
The line crackled. "Nara, listen to me. You need to leave that gallery now. Don't pack. Don't call anyone. Just run."
My pulse spiked. "Uncle, what are you—?"
"They're coming for you," he hissed. "The people your father worked for—they know what you are. They've been waiting for your blood to stir again. They'll want to finish what they started."
"What I am?" My throat tightened. "What are you talking about?"
"Your father made a deal, Nara. Years before you were born. He thought he could contain it, but when he died, the debt transferred—to you."
My hand went numb. "I don't—"
Static swallowed the words, then came a sharp crash, like something breaking.
"Uncle Tade?!"
A single word, almost a whisper, reached through the noise.
"Run."
The line went dead.
Ezrael was already moving before I lowered the phone. "Whoever that was, he's gone."
"How do you know?"
He looked toward the window. "Because the Veil trembled when he spoke. They found him."
I shook my head. "You don't know that."
"I do."
My breath hitched. "You keep saying they. Who are they, Ezrael? Who the hell are they?"
"Heaven calls them Collectors," he said. "Hell calls them Hounds. They clean up the threads that don't fit divine design. Mortals touched by celestial law. People like you."
I laughed shakily. "Fantastic. So now I'm cosmic contraband."
He didn't smile. "You're something rarer."
The windows flickered with another flash of lightning. For an instant, shadows crawled across the glass—not reflections, but shapes moving against the rain, their outlines too long, their wings wrong.
My stomach dropped. "Please tell me that's just my imagination."
Ezrael's expression hardened. "Get behind me."
"Ezrael—"
"Now, Nara."
His tone left no room for argument. I stumbled backward as he stepped toward the door, hand raised. The sigils under his skin flared like molten silver, burning through the dimness.
Then came the sound—the low, resonant thrum of wings. Not the clean, holy kind from Sunday paintings. This was heavier, corrupted, like rusted metal grinding against bone.
The air thickened. The mural behind us began to pulse faintly, gold bleeding through the cracks.
Ezrael whispered something under his breath, a prayer or a curse—I couldn't tell. The lights flared once, then blew out completely. Darkness swallowed the gallery.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't breathe. Then I saw them—through the glass, through the storm—dark figures moving between lightning strikes. One, two, three. Maybe more.
"Ezrael?" My voice trembled.
"They've found us," he said, wings flickering into existence like broken lightning. "You awakened too soon."
My phone buzzed again in my hand, vibrating violently. I glanced down—same unknown number flashing RUN.
"Too late for that," I whispered.
He turned, wings stretching wide, fractured light spilling across the walls. "Stay behind me, Nara. No matter what happens."
"I'm not hiding this time."
"Nara—"
"No," I said, meeting his eyes. "You said we're bound, right? Then let's make that count."
Something flickered in his gaze—fear, pride, love, all at once. "You have no idea what that means."
"Then teach me."
The thunder outside answered for him, shaking the windows. Somewhere beyond the rain, I thought I heard a scream. Or maybe it was just the city exhaling.
He stepped closer, his wings arching protectively around me, the tips almost brushing my skin. The heat of his power was dizzying—sunlight through shattered glass.
"You shouldn't be this brave," he said softly.
"I'm terrified," I whispered. "That's different."
The bond between us pulsed once—light flaring gold at the edges of his shadowed wings. For an instant, I thought I saw the same glow beneath my skin again, answering him.
Outside, something struck the door. Hard.
The mural's symbols blazed, golden and alive.
Ezrael's voice was a whisper in my ear: "Whatever happens, don't let go of me."
The door cracked. Light and darkness poured in together—impossible, blinding, beautiful.
And then my phone rang again.
The same number. The same voice, faint through static:
"They're inside. Run."
The line died.
Ezrael's wings flared wide, cutting through the dark. I didn't run. I reached for his hand instead.
And the world—our fragile, human world—split open.