The rain fell hard, slicing the night into thin, silver lines.
Below, the city breathed—neon veins pulsing, car horns crying like restless animals trapped in steel.
Aron stood on the rooftop's edge, Grey trench coat heavy with water. He didn't shiver.
The cold had long since stopped mattering. It was only proof that he was still here—still trapped in his flesh, in his memory.
"Am I special?" he whispered to the storm. "Some chosen one? Loved by the Creator?"
A bitter laugh broke out of him, raw and uneven. "No. Not special. Not even loved."
The words tasted metallic.
Lightning flared. His eyes caught the flash, burning gold.
"I'm not part of His creation," he said quietly. "I'm the glitch in His code. The misprint in His holy equation."
He looked up. "Maybe He hates me. Maybe I'm not human enough for His affection."
The sky said nothing.
"Why love them?" he asked. "Fragile, lying, sin-soaked humans who keep breaking His laws. You forgive them, again and again. But me?" His throat tightened. "You give me silence. Always silence."
He remembered the first prayer he'd ever made, how he once thought silence meant listening.
Now he knew better. Silence meant indifference.
"How many times have I begged You?" His voice trembled between laughter and weeping. "How many nights did I burn my own wings hoping You'd look my way? Why ....Why can't You see me?"
He clenched his fists. "I am human. I bleed. I feel."
The wind tore his words apart.
He stepped closer to the edge. The streets below blurred into a smear of color—light, shadow, time.
He tilted his head back. "Is this punishment because I didn't stop it? Because I let Him die? Your precious Son...?"
The memory flickered: a hill, a cross, a sky bleeding red. His voice refusing to speak when it mattered most.
"If that's it," he whispered, "then damn YOU. Damn Your plan."
Thunder answered, low and furious.
He leaned forward, letting gravity claim him. The air rushed past, cold and clean.
For an instant, there was peace.
Then—
A hand caught his coat.
The pull was small but absolute. He gasped, jerking to a stop above the void.
"...Let me go," he rasped.
"Not tonight," said a voice—soft, steady, trembling.
He twisted his neck. A figure in a raincoat clung to him, her hood shadowing her face. Behind her, faint light glowed—two folded wings, barely visible through the rain.
"...Uriel."
The name came out half venom, half longing.
"I can't let you die," she said. "You know that."
Aron gave a short, broken laugh. "Why not? The Creator stopped caring. Why should you?"
He began unbuttoning his coat. "I'm done."
"Aron—"
"Don't." His voice cracked. "Don't speak like you still believe..like you still have Faith...."
Lightning carved the sky open. For an instant, her face appeared—eyes molten gold, weary beyond age. The rain ran down her cheeks like tears borrowed from heaven.
"You think He talks to us?" she whispered. "He doesn't. Not anymore."
The storm seemed to pause. Aron's breath caught. Hearing it aloud hurt more than he expected.
So even angels had been silenced.
He saw again the day divinity went digital—the first time the System appeared.
Lines of code where scripture once lived.
Miracles recompiled into algorithms.
Faith turned into data.
"So what?" he said bitterly. "You want me to pity your lost choir? Daddy doesn't write anymore?"
His laughter echoed down the building's spine.
Uriel's fingers trembled on his coat. For a moment, he thought she might let go.
Maybe she should.
He undid the next button. One left.
Then—the air shimmered.
A low hum rippled through his bones. Blue text unfolded before his eyes, glowing in the rain:
[New mission acquired.]
[Find the Forbidden Fruit of Knowledge — The Apple of Wisdom.]
[Reward: A Note from the Creator.]
Aron froze. The rain hit his face, but he barely felt it.
A note.
He stared at the hovering glyphs. The irony burned cold.
"Pull me up," he whispered.
Uriel blinked. "What?"
"Pull me up."
Her grip tightened. Slowly, she hauled him back onto the roof. When his boots touched the concrete, he stood there, dripping, trembling.
"A note," he said softly. "After all this time."
"He ...He heard you?" she asked.
He smiled without warmth. "Let's say the System did."
She took a step closer. "Join us. Please. The others have lost faith. If you could show them even one word from Him—"
He shook his head. "....this THING isn't GOD. It's a machine wearing His name."
Thunder cracked again, sharp and distant.
Uriel's voice dropped. "Machine may it be, its still a gift, a line of commune with him, tell me, tell me what did it say?"
He didn't answer.
"Aron—what did it say?"
Silence.
He turned, opened the rooftop door, and stepped through.
"Aron!...Aro-"
The slam echoed louder than the thunder.
Down the stairwell, his wet boots marked a trail through shadow. The city's noise rose again—sirens, whispers, the hum of electric faith.
He walked as if carrying a weight too invisible to name.
The Apple of Wisdom. A forbidden fruit, another leash disguised as purpose.
He'd completed Millions of missions. Each one ended in silence. Each silence hollowed him further.
But this—this promise of a note—was new.
He almost laughed.
"Guess I'm still useful," he muttered. "Still the perfect little glitch..."
Since the first moment of awareness, when light touched his mind and he felt himself exist, Aron had been happy.
Happy to share the Creator's world beside Adam — a brother born of the same divine breath.
The Garden of Eden was meant to be theirs.
But the Creator chose differently.
He chose love over brotherhood, shaping Eve from Adam's side and setting her beside him instead of Aron.
Aron still remembered the moment he was set aside — the quiet dismissal, the look that said not you.
Yet he hadn't rebelled. The Almighty had promised his time would come, that he was still a child of heaven, destined to rule creation at His side.
He had believed it.
But time passed, and the Creator's gaze lingered only on the humans.
Adam and Eve: frail, curious, endlessly forgiven.
Aron watched them loved, cherished, guided — and something small and burning took root inside him. And someone, someone Sensed what he was feeling.
That was the day, the day Light-Bringer came to him.
"....No, forget it, I can't change what happened." Aron saidm with utter bitterness.
The reflection in the mirror stared back, older than time, wearing human skin.
Aron adjusted his coat. Maybe he deserved this exile. Maybe he should never have existed.
He'd erased his memories again and again through the ages, trying to stay sane, stay humble, stay small like the creatures he once helped make.
But now he remembered enough to hurt.
'Find the fruit huh....'
He knew who held the fruit of forbidden wisdom—the first spark of corruption, the domino that toppled paradise.
Eve. That fucking Bitch.
She still had it.
That woman who began everything.
If he could find her, take the fruit, the job would be done. The System would deliver his note — a message from the Creator — and maybe, finally, he would understand why he'd been left behind.
There was just one problem:
Eve hadn't been seen since the days of resurrection of Christ. Many millennia gone, and not a whisper.
Aron pulled out his phone. The name Adam glowed on the screen. Hos number showing. He called.
"Come on, pick up…" he muttered.
Nothing.
Typical.
It had been a long time since they'd spoken. Maybe Adam preferred silence too.
"Fine. The hard way, then."
He slipped on his dark coat, sunglasses hiding the faint gold in his eyes, a hat covering his shining hair.
He opened the apartment door—
—and almost collided with Uriel.
"For fuck's sake, Uriel," he groaned. "Do you practice jump scares now?"
She ignored the outburst, her face unreadable.
He brushed past her and headed for his car. When he started the engine, a faint rustle from the back seat made him sigh.
"Seriously?" he said, not looking. "Stalker much?"
She said nothing.
Sometimes silence was easier than being told to leave.
They drove through the city as the lights thinned and the streets grew darker, rougher.
Uriel watched him from the passenger side now, quiet, knowing that any question would be met with the same wall of indifference.
From his view, she was a nuisance.
From hers, she was his last assignment — his guardian. His Guardian angel.
She was used to this treatment, as it was only matter of perspective.
They stopped at the edge of the old district. A flickering red sign bled through the rain ahead: Satan's Stay.
Uriel's expression tightened. "Aron… I can't follow you in there, and if something happens, I can't save you...."
He opened his door. "Who said I need saving?"
"Think for once," she warned. "That place—"
He raised a middle finger without looking back. "Message received."
Uriel's jaw clenched. She wanted to drag him out of the driver's seat, to stop him before the shadows swallowed him again.
But she couldn't. Her authority ended here.
As Aron walked through the bar's doorway, her power thinned, dissolving into the dark. As she had no authority here, not even little.
All she could do was watch as the door closed behind him, light and rain spilling around the edges like a halo dying in the storm.
"....fuck." she whispered.
Aron stepped inside the bar—and instantly felt it.
Every instinct screamed at him to turn around.
He didn't.
Noise slammed into him: bass heavy enough to shake the floor, voices slurring through smoke.
No one liked his presence. He could feel it in the glances that slid his way, in the sudden drop of laughter near the door.
Most of them were just drunk—bodies moving without rhythm, lost in their own small worlds.
But a few… a few stared too long.
[Lesser demons detected.]
He didn't need the System to tell him.
Their eyes were hollow, glinting like wet stone.
Soulless things, wearing skin.
It would be easy—so easy—to cut them down.
But not tonight. They weren't worth the effort.
He crossed to the counter and dropped onto a stool.
"Beer," he said.
The bartender looked at him. Instantly recognizing who he was. His eyes trembled for a second but he controlled it.
"...you...you shouldn't be here..." Bartender replied.
Aron looked back at him, lowering his dark glasses, his golden eyes glowing ever so softer.
And just like that, he slid him a pint, and walked away as fast as possible.
Aron drained it in one swallow, not even a damn care, lacing his eyes; alcohol never touched him anyway.
'Use spell: Soul Search.'
[Soul Search activated.]
[Please specify the soul type you seek.]
"A blend—ninety percent evil, five good, five… corrupted variance," he murmured.
[Searching …]
[Three signatures detected. Range: five meters.]
"hmmmm...Good."
He wanted to order another drink, but the bartender was already snuffed away, gone., vanished, whatever you wanted to call it, and he rose—
A hand landed on his shoulder.
He turned to find a blonde woman, eyes an electric blue even in the dim light.
"Where are you from, sweetie?" she asked, smiling too brightly as she pressed him back into his seat and slid onto the stool opposite.
Aron met her gaze. Not malice. Not hunger.....but,
Want.
And something beneath it—fear.
Typical humans,' he thought, pushing to stand.
"Haven't seen a guy like you in ages... should we.."
Aron flocked off her touch, not even attempting to tickle her words. But.
She caught his coat sleeve, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Please… help me. This place—"
He pulled free. "You knew what you were walking into. Now live with it."
Her mouth opened, but he was already turning away.
'Typical indeed....' he thought.
The System's markers glowed faintly in his vision, pointing toward a side door where a single red bulb burned.
Behind it, souls were bartered—idiots trading fragments of eternity for pleasure or power.
He set a hand on the handle, ready to push through. But he paused. One of the instances where he hated himself for.
'Don't look back, don't look back, just go inside, do your fucking Job.' he told himself.
Then he looked back anyway.
The same woman now stood surrounded by three men. One gripped her shoulder, dragging her close. Her bright eyes were wide, shaking, realizing too late what kind of pit she'd wandered into.
Aron sighed.
"…for fuck's sake," he muttered, letting go of the handle.
The men held her tight. Hands like iron closed over wrists and hips; her breath hitched, small and rapid. Regret punched through her—she shouldn't have. She shouldn't have sold that sliver of herself for a moment of fame on some stupid app. She'd joked about it, laughed it off—then the deal signed itself, and now, now....
"You think you can walk away after making a deal? Hahaha. Cute."
The man behind her leaned close; his tongue slid out, too long, slick and nasty.
She wanted to scream, but the music swallowed her voice. Around them, people kept riding their mood, dancing, enjoying. And the people around her, they only stared at their drinks, not even giving a single shit about her, like what happening here was completely normal; so no one moved.
"Aaaaaa, this bitch, if I look closer, she looks Perfect for breeding gargoyles," another said, eyes flickering reptilian for a breath before smoothing again.
"haa...no, no, no,....Help!" she tried, the syllables a broken plea.
Aron stepped forward. He slid between the men as if sliding through a curtain of cold air. All three turned at once and looked at him—at the coat, the hat, the glint behind his glasses. Then they saw his eyes: gold, bright and patient as a blade.
"you...you are the…slayer," one of them whispered, stepping back, but keeping hold of the girl. "why?...She sold her soul. You don't have any right to intervene here."
Aron's gaze tracked the line of their grips, the tiny panic in the girl's jaw. He tapped his temple, the motion casual.
' Use spell: Scan Soul.'
[Scanning soul.]
[Result: 5% compromised; 70% good; 25% corrupted.]
Aron smiled—small, cold. "Five percent," he said. "For five percent you want to—breed her? You really mispriced this. I mean reaallyy..." His voice folded into something that wanted to be kind and was not.
The three men flinched. Their bravado thinned like cheap cloth. "Yo—hey, you can't—this is our area. We do what we want—"
Aron smiled. The streetlight through the window seemed to catch in his coat and flare translucent for a second. The music cut oh so suddenly, as if someone tugged a chord. Lights blinked, then went out, then stabbed back. The room itself shivering, shivering from his aura.
Their knees found new weaknesses.
The men let go of the girl and stumbled backward; the crowd turn confused, some complaining, some shouting. The blonde scrambled away, hands clutched to her coat, eyes wet and wild. "Th-thank you," she gasped.
Aron turned, feeling the presence he was looking for. As his palm came down on his shoulder—gentle, measured.
"Hey, hey—steady, Slayer." A man in a business coat stood there, older than the others, his face clean and calm. Red bled into his pupils for one slow blink.
"…Baal," Aron said.
Baal smiled, polite and dangerous. "Really? In my den?" His voice was silk pulled tight over steel. "Are you sure you want to do this…in front of everyone..?"
Aron's patience thinned. ".....let her go."
Baal's smile widened. He looked at his there trembling men, at the mess of panic, then back at Aron.
"Let her go..."
"But...Boss."
"I said let her go you fucking cunt!" He beloud.
The three men followed the order like their lives were on the line, giving her the space she wanted, a gap enough for her to run away.
Aron nudged his head, teeling the blond lady to go.
The girl looked at Aron, tears glinting at the corners of her eyes. She knew she was lucky—alive by a miracle. For a moment, she had thought she was already dead....
"Th-thank you… mister," she stammered, then turned and ran, whispering a promise to herself never to set foot in a bar ever again.
Aron exhaled, the glow in his eyes fading. The music stuttered back to life; the flickering lights steadied. Within seconds, the crowd began to move again, pretending nothing had happened—human denial at its finest.
A low chuckle came from behind him.
"Ha… should we talk inside?" Baal said, his tone half-amused, half-wary.
Aron adjusted his hat with a flick of his wrist. "Lead the way."
They entered a back room lit by a single red bulb. Two luxury sofas faced each other across a low table, a small private bar glimmering in the corner. The silence here felt heavier—deliberate.
Baal gestured for him to sit. "So," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "what brings the great Slayer into my humble den?" He clapped once. A server moved near without being noticed, setting down a shot of tequila in front of Baal. He swigged it, hummed appreciation. "Humans and their inventions," he said. "Delightful."
"Save the charm," Aron said. "I'm looking for Eve."
A slow, incredulous laugh escaped Baal. The sound rolled, and something in his face softened—and then something else leaked through, a shadow of horn and heat that he slid back into the human cut of his smile.
"You're serious," Baal said. "You. want. Eve."
"...." Aron's voice tightened. "If you don't know, say so. Don't waste my time."
Baal's amusement curdled. He waved a hand; the door opened. One by one, men streamed in to ring the room—claws, pipes, shotguns heavy in human hands. They gathered like vultures at a kill.
"So," Baal purred. "Slayer, I'll ask nicely first—why are you in my den asking about the First Woman, and I will say this again, I am not, and I mean Not fond of jokes...?"
Aron sat, hat in hand, the motion lazy and dangerous. "...Just give me the fucking information...Baal, otherwise."
A swaggering thug stepped forward. "You gonna threaten me again, Slayer? We got—"
".....I always hated that name." Aron cut him off. "I'm a holy being—first of the first. Don't reduce me to tribal nicknames like that..."
Baal stood. His smile snapped like a wire. "You fucker," he spat. "You erased a quarter of our kind." He slammed the table. Glass jumped. "That name fits you. No you fucking deserve that name....like a stain to your holy fucking cloak."
He waved his hand; the room answered with a roar. "Gut him up!" he shouted.