Chapter 5: Very Well, Wish Granted
Dark.
Not alley-dark, not midnight-with-no-moon dark. No — this was different. A suffocating, bottomless kind of dark. No sound, no air, no weight in his chest. He couldn't even feel the beat of his own heart.
For a second Jimmy thought: So this is it. Hell. Figures it'd be cheap.
Then came the voice.
"Of all the wishes you could utter with your dying breath…"
It wasn't sound, not really. More like the dark itself cracked open and poured words into him. The kind of voice that didn't need lungs or a mouth to make itself heard.
"…that is it? Sunshine. Rainbows. Love."
Jimmy's lips twitched. If he still had lips.
"Well, excuse the hell outta me for not wishin' for a Ferrari," he muttered, the sarcasm automatic, reflexive — the way a soldier reaches for his gun.
And then the dark moved.
Two red lights flared ahead. Eyes. They burned low, like coals in the pit of a furnace. Slowly, a figure took shape: hair blacker than the void around it, long and sharp, spilling across a pale face carved too perfect to be human. A body tall and lean. Bare feet, pale against the nothing.
Then the wings.
Six of them. Huge, black, stretching wider than any church spire Jimmy had ever seen, each feather edged faintly in crimson, as if it had been dipped in bloodlight. They unfurled, one by one, until the figure looked less like an angel, less like a devil, and more like something the world had no word for.
The eyes locked on him.
"You could have begged for power," the being said, slow and weighty, like a judge banging a gavel. "You could have cried for vengeance. You could have demanded an empire of blood, to match the one you carved in your mortal life."
Jimmy snorted. "Yeah? And where would that get me? Another empire, another buncha guys waitin' to stick a knife in my back. No thanks."
The faintest tilt of the head. Like a crow studying roadkill.
"And yet," the voice went on, "you ask for sunshine. For love. For peace. A pitiful thing. A small thing."
Jimmy's jaw clenched. "Don't you dare call it pitiful. You try bleedin' on rooftops, holdin' your brothers' guts in your hands while you're knee-deep in brass, then tell me wantin' somethin' quiet's small. Sunshine and rainbows, pal — yeah, I wanted that. I earned the right to want that."
The figure's lips twitched. Not a smile, not really. More like amusement.
"Very well," he said, wings stretching. The sound of feathers filled the void, sharper than swords leaving their sheaths. "Wish granted."
Jimmy stiffened. "Wait—wait a damn second. You don't just—hey, I ain't finished here!"
The figure raised one pale hand.
"And may you," the words rolled out, both blessing and sentence, "save the people who also have been forsaken by gods and fate… and give them their redemption."
Jimmy barked a laugh, raw and bitter. "Oh, screw you. Redemption? I didn't sign up to be Jesus. All I said was sunshine. Maybe a hammock, a drink with an umbrella in it. That's it. You hear me? I didn't—"
The wings snapped outward. The void ripped apart like wet paper.
Light burst through, blinding, merciless. Jimmy threw his arms up, cursing. "Son of a—! This ain't what I asked for! You hear me, birdman? I want a refund!"
The light swallowed his voice.
It burned. Not like fire. Fire he knew. Fire had smoke, had taste, had weight. This was a clean burn, stripping him down, peeling away everything until there was nothing left but raw nerve.
Somewhere under the roar, he heard it.
Music.
Soft. Sweet. Strings. Piano. Flowery enough to make his teeth ache.
Jimmy's stomach dropped. No. No, no, no. He knew that sound. He'd left it playing in the background enough nights to recognize it.
But the light was too bright. The music too faint. He couldn't place it. Couldn't name it.
He tried to scream, but the light shoved itself into his mouth, into his lungs.
Then — silence.
Jimmy's eyes snapped open.
He was staring at a ceiling.
But not a ceiling he knew. No peeling paint. No water stains. No cracks from bullets punched through plaster.
This one was wood. Carved. Laced with gold leaf, each edge catching the sunlight that poured through tall windows draped in velvet red. A chandelier dripped crystal light above him. The air smelled thick — roses, sweet and heavy, like perfume left too long in the bottle.
Slowly, he sat up.
His body moved too easy. No ache, no torn muscles, no bullet holes grinding against bone. He looked down. No blood. No ruined suit. Instead: a white shirt crisp enough to cut glass, a black vest tailored to him, gloves hugging his fingers.
His heart pounded.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Boots clicked against marble so polished he could almost see himself in it.
And there — across the room — stood a mirror. Tall, gilded, framed like a damn museum piece.
Jimmy swallowed. His throat was dry as ash.
Step by step, he crossed the floor. Each footfall echoed too loud.
And then he saw it.
Not Jimmy Bellic. Not the tired face lined by alleys and blood, not the man carved by street corners and late-night deals.
No.
The reflection was someone else entirely. Pale skin, sharp jaw, black hair falling in soft waves. Eyes dark, intense, aristocratic. A stranger's face. A noble's face.
Jimmy froze.
Slowly, he raised his hand. The reflection raised his.
"…What the hell is this?"
The roses on the table swayed in some draft he couldn't feel. Petals slid to the floor, red as fresh blood.
The silence of the room pressed in, thick and unyielding.
And Jimmy Bellic, killer, mobster, orphan of the streets, stood staring at a stranger in the mirror — confused, disoriented, and for the first time in his life, unarmed.