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Blood thrummed behind her eyes, a hard, pulsing hammer that kept pace with every step. The warmth of the portal slid off her shoulders and left nothing but cold silence and the defiant thump of her own heart. For a moment it felt like fear—useless, cowardly, fucking fear. She took another step. Then another. Her heels scraped the polished marble, letting out a shrill screech that stirred the man beside her.
She didn't dare raise her head, didn't dare look at him. He was—he was nothing like Adam, but…
Why did she suddenly feel so small?
His bark, if only for a moment, weighed heavy over her. That same bite, that same confident command—the one Adam wielded so easily. The growl she dedicated her every move to, swung her blade for even now! And yet this—this worthless kid—had been crying about how screwed they were the moment war was mentioned. A war that should've been started the moment Adam perished. After everything he did to keep Heaven safe—that bastard wanted to turn tail, fold, pussy out when she was right there—!
And she fucking listened.
Her hands gripped at her thighs, worthless, defiant, trembling, under her fingers. The nails bit into the fabric, stretched the seams taught under the pressure—until her skin burned.
She wanted to speak up, to yell, to pin that fucker against the wall where he stood. But the words are muzzled against her teeth. What was this? Who had she become?
Who had he become? If only for a moment.
Her gaze flicked toward him, searching for even a scrap of Adam left in the boy. A futile effort. His jaw was quivering as he fanned himself—breathing erratic—like a cornered animal, a twitching little runt waiting to be put down. Each breath came in quick succession, grating against her ears. Oh, how she longed to feel her fingers around his throat and wring every last one of them out.
“Emily—shit—we left her behind. That was… that was bad, right? Like, really bad. But she's a seraphim, she’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. …Right?”
Fucking coward. She backed down for a coward.
Between ragged breaths, he’d managed to spit out something coherent.
“Ms. Lute..?” He whined between pants.
She'd wished he hadn't.
"What?” she managed, her voice tight. She didn’t know what she expected—some shift, some echo of the man she thought she heard—but not this.
“I, uh, I'm sorry I called you a bitch… That was, uh, not cool. Pretty lame actually.”
Of course. Whoever was pulling the strings had played a cruel joke on her.
Right when victory was in her lap.
Her breath rasped against her helmet, fogging her vision in hot, frantic bursts. That was her chance, and she fucking blew it. She’d let this trembling coward make her retreat—just like the day Adam died, when she fell back at the command of the Morningstar of all people.
How powerless was she? How could she claim to honor Adam—claim to love him—if she couldn’t even finish what he started? If she faltered every time someone barked at her the way he used to?
Was she really that useless without him?
The red rush of Hell's wretched air flashed across her memory. That traitor, the spoiled princess, and her Seraphim joining hands all on the other side—taunting her. For her to help those filthy demons! The hierarchy was poisoned, and she had to watch it wither and die to corruption.
Her blade had been so fucking close. Hell had made that abomination softer than she ever was in Heaven. One more swing, one more half step and—
A hand landed on her shoulder—pathetic, quivering.
“You know if you— need someone to talk to, I—”
“You think I’d want to talk to you?” she hissed. Her blade came up on instinct as she whirled toward him.
“I-I— just thought— maybe we had some common ground here?” He rubbed the back of his neck, sweat beading at his brow like the useless coward he was.
Her eyes narrowed, locking onto the fear in his face as she drove him back.
“Don't. You. Dare. Compare. Yourself. To. Me. We have nothing in common!”
Abel recoiled, scrambling back against the wall, ducking away from her blade with a few nervous chuckles.
“You've got great aim, Ms. Lute—love the drive—but I think we both have a lot to unpack here.”
“Unpack? That's fucking rich. You think I'm gonna spill my guts to you just because your balls finally dropped?”
“Ouch, uh—well, no I just… um…”
Typical. The coward went silent, retreated into his own uselessness.
“I thought maybe you could use… I dunno, a shoulder to cry on? Crying’s, like, really cathartic. I know Dad never really did that, but you’re—uh—you’re a girl, so he probably wouldn’t have minded?”
His words fizzled out as her eyes bore into him.
He had the nerve—the absolute fucking nerve—to even mention him.
Her heart hammered in her chest, banged against her ribs, the last of her energy coiled tight with nowhere to strike. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her blade, knuckles whitening under the pressure. Abel watched her like she was a ticking time bomb, some volatile thing.
She'd show him volatile.
He swallowed.
“Look—I, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” he blurted, breath shaking. “We both lost him. I figured maybe we could… I don’t know—help each other out? Work through it? I can tell you really cared about him. I mean, not like—like I did, but—”
Wrong words.
Wrong tone.
Wrong fucking everything.
Lute lunged, and Abel reacted the only way he knew how—he launched himself up with his wings and darted out of reach. When her eyes found him again, he was pressed against the window, one trembling hand bracing him against the glass.
“You don’t know a damn thing about what I felt,” her voice tore through the hall, scraping hard against the glass panes. “But you… you could never replace him!”
The words fell—hard. Her breathing was erratic, bracing for whatever pathetic justification he’d try to choke out next.
“I know.” He whimpered, finally. His voice was a pitiful drop among the silence.
“Weak.”
“I know.”
“Useless.”
“I know.”
“Coward.”
“I know!” His fingers squeaked against the glass as he slid down bit by bit. Until his feet touched down, and he marched toward her with a trembling sort of defiance, as if sheer willpower could make him braver than he was.
“I've heard this all before! Abel, grow a pair. Abel, stop being a pussy. Learn to hit a target for once in your damn life—well, hey at least one of his sons had good aim!”
Then there's a flicker, he held his wings tight against him, threw his shoulders back. Held a stance that, for just a moment, looked like him again.
“You think that means I don't miss him too!?”
She hated that she hesitated, had to shrug off whatever sensation ran up her spine. She straightened her back, trying to match his height. He could never measure up to his father's stature, but even still the meager inches he had on her left her feeling agonizingly small. It had to be that shitty fucking hat.
“That changes nothing.” She barked out. “You may be my superior now, but you are not my commander, and I am not some charity case for you to coddle.”
“Lute—no, really, it’s not like that! I’m just… worried about you. All this broody, stabby energy? It’s not good for your—well, everything. You should take the rest of the day off, relax—maybe spend an extra hour in the ball pit..? Or two—you could probably use two actually.”
“Are you fucking hearing yourself? I don't need rest, I don't need your condescension, and I definitely don't need the FUCKING BALL PIT.”
“Really? Cause, it kind of seems like you do. Like… bad.”
The sound that tore out of her was more a feral growl than speech. She flared her wings high, planted her foot hard, and shot him a look that could have dropped lesser hellspawn where they stood.
“Enough! This is pointless. You win.”
She snapped her wings shut. “I’ll be in the compound if Hell retaliates.”
She was almost at the door when his voice reached her.
“He, um… he must’ve meant a lot to you, right? For you to want this whole war thing so badly?”
“As if I'd tell you that.”
Well—you don’t stroll the promenade off-duty with just anyone.” He laughed nervously. “I mean—you two didn't really hide that. Everyone kind of—noticed. You looked… different, with him. Less scary, at least.”
She stopped, but didn't dare face him.
“Different,” she repeated, the words came in a growl.
He hesitated again.
“I—I mean it in a good way,” he rushed out. “He brought out something in you. Something… softer, I guess? Happier— that’s it!”
Her nails dug into her palms.
Happier. Had he confused that for some kindred weakness?
Abel mistook her silence for openness—idiotically so.
“I get it, you know,” he went on, stepping closer. “Missing him. Wanting to prove something because he’s gone. I feel that too.”
“You don’t,” she said.
“Well—I mean—maybe not exactly how you do, but—”
“You don’t,” she said again, sharper. “You don’t understand a fucking thing.”
Abel hesitated, but he'd never been good at shutting his mouth.
"I’m just saying… we’re both grieving. You in your, uh, murder-rage way—and me in my more, um, normal way. But it’s the same kind of pain, right?”
She couldn't help but laugh at that.
“Did that knock to the head scramble your fucking brains or something? You will never understand how I feel. You weren't there. You didn't watch him die. You didn’t know him like I did. No matter how much you fucking wanted to.”
That shut him up. He stared back at her like a wounded little boy—likely seconds from tears. Whatever he’d meant to say, he didn’t have the spine to follow it through.
Then—
“Fuck this.”
She shoved past him, shouldering the door so hard it rattled against the frame.
“I’m done,” she threw over her shoulder. “Don’t speak to me again unless it’s an order.”
And she stormed down the corridor, each step heavier than the last. Her eyes locked on the floor, vision blurring and warping against the mosaic tiles.
That was it.
Her only chance.
And she watched it die right in front of her.
Just like him.