The sky was on fire.
Angels rained from the heavens, their forms radiant and cold, like statues carved from starlight. They hovered in perfect symmetry, not a twitch, not a flutter out of place—serene in their stillness, godlike in their judgment.
Then a voice, oily and cruel, coiled inside Angelo's skull.
"Kill them all."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command. And it struck with the intimacy of a whisper and the weight of a blade buried deep in bone.
Angelo flinched, eyes twitching. His fists trembled, not from fear—but from restraint.
Across the city, Hale's voice shattered the fragile second of paralysis.
"All units! Open fire! Light those bastards up!"
The soldiers obeyed without hope. Bullets screamed into the sky, hundreds of rounds stitching through the air—only to pass through the angels like rain through smoke. The divine beings moved between the gunfire with impossible grace, drifting downward like falling feathers. Serene. Elegant.
Then the killing began.
A man was lifted off his feet—no one saw how. He screamed once before his limbs cracked backward with sickening snaps. Another soldier lunged to help, only to be impaled mid-stride by a blade of light so bright it seared shadows into nearby walls. In seconds, chaos turned into carnage.
And Angelo… stood still.
Frozen—not by fear, but by the war raging within him.
If I fight… I lose more of myself. If I don't… they die.
He heard their screams. Felt the heat. Smelled the blood.
Then Hale's voice again—raw, urgent.
"Angelo! What the hell are you waiting for? ELIMINATE THE ENEMY!"
That snapped the chain.
His eyes locked onto her position—Hale crouched beside a fallen soldier, hefting an RPG like it weighed nothing. She fired. The explosion lit up the street, a direct hit. An angel's body spiraled through the air, trailing radiant blood. It crashed through a wall like a meteor.
It bled.
"They're not invincible!" she screamed. "Use heavy weapons! Take out their wings and heads!"
The tide shifted. Soldiers scrambled for rocket launchers and armor-piercing rounds. The angelic chorus turned to shrieks of frustration as divine bodies were broken, blackened, and torn. Their serene faces twisted in fury.
But they retaliated.
The sky erupted. Blades of celestial fire fell like judgment. Entire buildings exploded in radiant bursts. Roads cracked and melted. People burned without flame.
Then—
Angelo turned. An angel landed silently before him, its face expressionless. Its halo pulsed like a heartbeat.
And then the spear came.
It rammed through his chest, pinning him like an insect. The pain didn't register. More spears followed, glowing with holy venom—through his arms, his legs, into the earth beneath. Crystallizing his body to the dirt like a heretical monument.
Soldiers stopped firing.
Some screamed. Some dropped their guns. Some turned and ran.
"No," Hale whispered from behind cover. Then she grabbed her comm, screaming, "ALL UNITS—FREE ANGELO! I REPEAT—FREE ANGELO!"
Soldiers surged. Some were cut down mid-charge. Others lobbed grenades, opening paths with blood and fire.
Angelo's eyes stared upward, vacant and flickering. An angel hovered above him, its face inches from his.
"You let them die," it whispered. "You always do."
Something inside him broke.
No…
Something was released.
The voice in his head returned, louder than ever. No longer a whisper. A chant.
"KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL."
His fingers twitched. A thin crack spread beneath him like lightning. His lips curled back into a smile—slow, savage, unhinged.
"You shouldn't have touched me," he growled.
"You really shouldn't have touched them."
BOOM.
The ground detonated as his power exploded outward. The spears—divine and unbreakable—shattered like cheap glass.
Flames surged through his body. His chest reformed. Limbs regenerated. Veins lit up like magma under cracked stone.
An angel lunged.
Too slow.
Angelo's hand punched through its ribs, fingers curling around something glowing and sacred—the core of divine light. He ripped it out.
The angel's eyes dimmed. Its scream was cut short.
Then it fell. Dead.
Dead.
The battlefield froze.
Even the angels halted in mid-air.
And Angelo stood… bleeding, grinning, steaming—no longer hiding what he was.
His gaze swept over the battlefield, eyes glowing like furnace coals. Then he laughed.
Not out of joy. Out of rage.
It was raw.Mocking.Wrong.
"You talk too much," he said, spitting blood.
"Why'd you stop? Come on. Keep talking."
He looked up at the hovering angels.
"Keep floating if you want—I'll just paint the sky with your insides."
No one moved.
Bad mistake.
He launched into the air like a cannon blast—BOOM.
He caught one by the throat mid-flight, dragged it down like a meteor, and smashed it into the pavement. Cratered the street.
His fists turned molten, glowing like miniature suns.
Then he tore through them.
One by one.
Crushing skulls. Ripping wings. Snapping spines.
"DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE!"
Chunks of radiant armor rained from the sky like broken halos. Divine light dimmed. Screams replaced hymns.
From behind a destroyed barricade, Hale stared wide-eyed as Angelo ripped an angel in half with his bare hands.
"Oh my god…" someone whispered behind her.
Hale didn't flinch.
She smiled.
"No," she muttered. "That's not God. That's what kills gods."