The call with Albert ended, and the clearing fell into a heavy, ringing silence. The Professor’s warning about Dr. T’s blood-smeared cell walls felt like a cold draft lingering in the air.

  Kirren was the first to break the tension, stepping forward with a swagger that felt slightly too loud for the gravity of the moment. "First Joe Blackstorm, now Albert Goldstein? I gotta ask, kid—do you just collect celebrity speed-dials as a hobby, or is your life just one big cameo?"

  Angelo didn't offer so much as a glance. It was Sol who stepped into the gap, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, a smirk playing on his lips that mirrored Kirren’s own—though Sol’s held a sharper, more calculated edge.

  "A man is known by the company he keeps, Mr. Kirren," Sol said, tilting his head. "And my friend here? He keeps some very high-altitude company. You’re looking at Novaria’s very own urban legend. The Angel of Death in the flesh."

  "Look at them—not even a twitch. They knew exactly who he was before Sol opened his mouth!" Red growled in their shared space. "Our PR man is wasting his breath.

  Blue sighed, his tone clinical. "You're missing the point. Solomon isn't convincing them, he’s provoking them. By 'feeding' them Angelo’s identity, he forces a subconscious reaction for you to catch. He’s the lure, testing how deep the hook goes."

  "So he's baiting the line," Angelo thought, narrowing his eyes at Kirren. "Shaking the room to see what falls out of their pockets."

  "Oh, smart cookie," Red added, finally catching the rhythm of the game. "Pretty boy is playing mental poker, using the 'Angel' as his Ace. Let's see if these desert rats show their real hand."

  "The Angel of Death, huh?" Kirren’s playful demeanor shifted, his eyes narrowing as if trying to see through Angelo’s skin. "And here I thought we were the main event today. You don't look like much of an omen, pal."

  "I’m not a performer," Angelo said, his voice dry and low. Neiva watched Kirren warily, her fingers twitching near her waist.

  "Well, it’s not every day I get to meet the man behind the ghost stories. My head is just bursting with questions," Kirren said, gesturing broadly. "Starting with the obvious: why the vigilante act? The ex-cop seeking vengeance? It’s a bit cliché for a guy with your connections, don't you think?"

  "Because..." Angelo passed, the weight of a thousand Ashford nights pressing on his chest. "I believe everyone deserves to choose differently when they face the Angel of Death. Most of them simply choose poorly."

  Kirren chuckled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Choice? That’s a nice way to frame an execution. Come on, what’s the real hook?"

  Angelo folded his arms, the temperature in the clearing seemingly dropping. "Have you ever considered the cost of mercy, Kirren? When you set the irredeemable free, the bill is paid in innocent blood. I’m just the one who settles the tab before it gets that far."

  Even Kirren’s playfulness faltered at the sudden chill. Neiva nodded silently, her expression hardening. Kirren studied Angelo’s eyes—the eyes of a man who didn't just see the darkness, but lived in it.

  "Damn... you actually believe your own narrative," Kirren noted, his voice dropping an octave. Angelo remained silent, a silence that spoke of buried bodies and cold justice. Kirren sighed, a look of genuine realization crossing his face. "I’ll give you this—I’m probably ten times stronger than you on paper. But looking at you... it’s like you’re hauling an invisible mountain. A weight like that would’ve snapped my spine years ago."

  "A luxury afforded to the broken," Angelo replied. "Those of us who are already condemned don't mind the extra weight."

  "Here’s the part where the logic fails, though," Kirren noted, his aura beginning to simmer. "You play this game where you give 'em an ultimatum, wait for 'em to swing first, then call it self-defense. It's a tidy little ritual."

  The group exchanged uneasy glances.

  "But who gave you the keys to the courthouse?" Kirren asked, his smile returning, but this time it was predatory. "Who decided you were the one to hold the scale?"

  Angelo blinked. "What?"

  "You heard me." Kirren’s pink aura suddenly ignited, a soft, ominous glow. Sand began to swirl around him, rising like a tide. "What if I decided to put on a show? What if I dressed up just like you, did everything you did, and called it 'justice'? Would I be a brother in arms, or just another name on your list?"

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The sand began to knit together, forming heavy, hooded robes that looked woven from shadow and grit. In Kirren’s hand, a scythe manifested—the blade so condensed it looked like smoked glass, gleaming maliciously.

  He looked exactly like her. Like Jill.

  The trigger was instantaneous. Angelo’s aura exploded outward. Red’s eyes burned with a primal, crimson light, and then, Angelo’s aura shifted into a violent, blood-orange hue—a Sub-Trinergy mode triggered by pure trauma. He began to breathe heavily, a guttural, rabid sound.

  "Kirren, stop!" Sienna shouted, seeing the murderous intent flooding the clearing.

  Sol reached out to steady him, but Blue recovered first, dampening the feedback loop. "Mr. Kirren, I must insist you dissolve that construct immediately! I implore you!"

  Kirren, seeing the genuine terror he had provoked, let the sand collapse. The aura winked out. "Whoa... easy there. What hit you?"

  Angelo and Red deflated in unison, the orange glow snuffed out. Angelo stood there, blinking, his face flushed with the shame of his own PTSD.

  "My apologies for my colleague's reaction," Blue offered, his voice trembling with the effort of maintaining diplomacy. "That particular silhouette... it evokes a very specific… Memories."

  "Nah, that’s on me," Kirren said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know a thing or two about triggers. Didn't mean to poke the bear. My bad."

  "You... you have trauma too?" Neiva asked softly, the subject obviously touching her as well.

  "Not mine," Kirren admitted. "My brother. He was a commander—big shot, top tier. His squad got ambushed. He took the first hit, and his second-in-command practically dragged his half-dead carcass through miles of mud to get him out. When he woke up... he was the only one left. The whole squad, wiped."

  Angelo’s eyes widened. The dangers Sleeser was currently facing in the field suddenly felt very real.

  Kirren sighed. "Now he won't even light a candle with his aura. Quit the army. Watching a lion turn into a house cat... it’s a special kind of heartbreak."

  Neiva stepped forward. "He is fortunate to have someone who cares enough to remember the lion."

  "Ha! You got that right!" Kirren barked a laugh. "He raised me. Never gave up on me, even when I was a royal pain. I’d jump into a volcano for that guy." He straightened up, the playful mask sliding back into place. "But we’re getting off track. You still haven't answered the riddle, Angel."

  Angelo straightened his back. "The question of my authority."

  "Exactly. If I become the Angel of Death tomorrow, you cool with that, or am I under your gavel? Do you judge yourself?"

  The question was a physical blow. Sol and Blue were silent. Angelo was frozen.

  In the void of his mind, the image of his internal "Glass House" appeared.

  CRACK

  A single, jagged fissure ran down the center of the cathedral.

  "Did you really think your little crusade was airtight?" Red’s voice echoed. "Ask the scholar—there are no absolutes. Just mess and more mess. You fight chaos with chaos, Angelo. That’s the only rule that works."

  Angelo looked at his fists. The memory of his first confrontation with Sleeser clawed its way to the surface—the hollow, absolute voice of a man who hadn’t yet seen the cracks in his own foundation. "If I have to burn in hell to fix what’s broken in this world, I’ll bring the matches myself."

  He looked up, his eyes glowing with a steady, calculated orange light.

  "You found the flaw," Angelo said, his voice level. "My solution is as broken as the world it’s trying to fix. You asked if I would judge another who did what I do? The answer is no. I won't be a hypocrite. If someone else brings true justice... then I have no right to stand in their way."

  The clearing was silent.

  "But," Angelo added, looking Kirren in the eye, "this road leads to a very dark place. I prefer to walk it alone. I wouldn't wish this burden on another." His glance towards Neiva made her look away.

  Kirren chuckled. "You're a real one, I’ll give you that." He straightened, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "I know someone like you and my brother could never get along—hell, you’d probably kill each other on principle—but you know? I wish you could."

  The group went silent, watching him.

  "I wish everyone could get along," Kirren continued, a rare trace of earnestness in his voice. "Now that’s a world I actually want to live in. Just imagine... so many people out there only seek entertainment to escape. But if everyone actually got along? Then we could all just enjoy the game for what it is. No escapism. Just... the game."

  Angelo closed his eyes. "Then our visions aren't so different. I'm just clearing the field so others can play safely."

  Kirren’s eyes widened slightly, a flash of respect crossing over his features.

  "My brother’s last request was for me to win an Arch tournament," Angelo continued. "Perhaps by then, the world will be quiet enough for even someone like me to enjoy the game."

  "Ha! The Arch tournament? You better start doing some push-ups then, pal!" Kirren smirked. "But you know what? I'll believe in you. Don't make a liar out of me."

  Those words made Angelo’s skin crawl. Why did everyone keep saying it like that?

  "Alright, enough with the therapy session!" Kirren clapped his hands. "Ready to head out? Sol, Sienna—let's get moving."

  Sol nodded, gesturing for the others to follow him up the ramp. "Alright, everyone inside. We’ve got a long flight to Leilani."

  Kirren and Sienna followed Sol into the CampShip, leaving Angelo standing by the base of the ramp. Neiva lingered just behind him, her fingers catching the edge of his sleeve before he could step up.

  He stopped, turning back to her. "What is it?"

  "You had me worried for a second," she whispered. "I thought... I thought you were going to say you were finished. That you were done being the Angel." She look up, her eyes pleading. "Please... don't stop. Please."

  Angelo’s jaw tightened. He saw how she used his shadow as a bunker. "I’ll stop when the world doesn't need a monster anymore, Neiva. But we talked about this. You can't live in my shadow forever. You need to find your own light."

  Neiva looked away, her grip on his sleeve tightening before she let go. "I know. Just... not yet. Please."

  "Fine. But don't get too comfortable."

  "I won't."

  They finally climbed the ramp, and as the hatch hissed shut, the clearing grew still. Inside, Angelo felt the familiar, low-frequency hum of their collective REM beginning to cycle through the hull. The ship lifted with a silent, haunting grace, leaving the dust of the clearing far below. Leilani was waiting.