Yohan was admitted to the hospital after collapsing in the forest.
A week passed in a haze of sleepless nights and whispered nightmares. Doctors called it PTSD, but Yohan knew it was something worse. He wasn't just haunted—he was being hunted.
When he recovered, he returned to his hunt. The trail led him to cemetery records, where he discovered a disturbing truth: the boy's "parents" weren't real. They were foster parents.
He drove to their home, hoping for answers. Instead, he found their bodies, cold and butchered. Whoever was covering the child's past was not just careful—they were merciless.
At the graveyard, Yohan stood over their tombstones, rain dripping from the edges of his coat. That's when he saw it—scratched faintly into the stone of the boy's grave:
Help me, help me, it burns. Help me, help me, it burns.
The words carved themselves into Yohan's mind like fire. His breathing grew shallow. Maybe the Angel's mask wasn't just to hide his face. Maybe it was to tell the world his face was gone, burned away, screaming forever in silence.
Before he could think further, his phone rang.
The firehouse.
The fire chief was dead.
Yohan rushed to the scene, his heart pounding. The smell of ash and scorched flesh filled the air. The chief's body was burned beyond recognition, sprawled on the floor, blood pooled into grotesque shapes.
But this time, it wasn't just wings painted in blood.
There were words too:
Help me, help me, it burns. My body is decaying. Help me, help me, it burns. The sins burn me alive.
Yohan's stomach twisted. The connection was undeniable now. The dead boy and the Angel were tied together—but how could a boy who died ten years ago be walking as a killer now?
That night, Yohan returned home and pulled out the second book from the set he had taken: The God of Trumpet.
The director once told him it was the book that made the boy fall in love with reading.
He opened it and read:
---
The God of Trumpet
Long ago, in a faraway land, there was a village protected by the God of Trumpet. He lived only to serve.
Every morning, he rose with the sun, played his trumpet to call the rain, watered the crops, carried food to the weak, named the newborn children. Day after day, year after year.
He was so busy giving names to others that he never gave one to himself. So busy looking after the villagers that he never once looked into a mirror.
One day, while naming a child, he saw a boy wearing a small, worn-out hat. The boy's eyes glowed with gratitude when the God named him Yohan. As a gift, the boy placed his hat on the God's head.
The God of Trumpet smiled. For the first time, he felt curious about himself.
"How do I look with this hat?" he wondered.
He walked to the river, leaned over the water, and saw his reflection.
What stared back was not divine.
It was a face twisted by fire and shadow, horns curling from the skull, eyes hollow as if carved out by guilt. A demon.
The reflection whispered through the ripples:
"Am I good, or am I evil? Am I God, or am I Devil? What am I, if not both? Look around you—if they follow you, they must become like you. Monsters. Demons. Killers."
His hands lifted the trumpet to his lips against his will. He blew.
The sound tore the air apart like a scream. The sky blackened. The earth cracked.
He blacked out.
When he awoke, the village was in flames. The crops turned to ash. The homes collapsed in fire. The villagers burned alive, their cries of agony rising into the smoke like a cursed choir.
The God dropped his trumpet, hands shaking, face wet with sweat and ash. He looked at the boy—Yohan.
The boy didn't cry. Didn't scream. He only lifted two fingers to the center of his forehead, as if pointing to the place where thought and soul lived. His expression was neither grief nor anger—only knowing.
The God of Trumpet fell to his knees. He finally understood. Either he was the monster, or the villagers always were. But the true demon was neither God nor man.
The true demon…was flying above them all, in wings of fire and light.
---
Yohan slammed the book shut, trembling. The stories weren't just disturbing—they were warnings, prophecies. Each book was leaving breadcrumbs, each one leading him closer to the truth of the Angel.
Before he could process, his phone rang again.
Another officer had been kidnapped.
The last known sighting? With Yohan himself.
When he arrived at the scene, the only clue was a slip of paper.
Take me to where he who isn't worthy got the death worthy enough and still mocked by Devil.
Yohan knew.
The church.
The back cross, where the double windows turned the holy symbol into an upside-down mockery.
He entered an abandoned apartment near the church and found him.
Headless Angel.
Standing calmly in front of the bound officer.
Yohan's voice cut through the silence: "It's you."
The Angel tilted his head. "How did you find me so quickly?"
"The cross of Saint Peter," Yohan said. "Mocked by the Devil. It was all in your words."
The Angel chuckled, low and hollow. "Then what will you do now, detective?"
"I'll stall you," Yohan muttered. "The cops are on their way."
The Angel stepped closer, silent as a shadow.
"Don't move," Yohan barked, raising his revolver. "Not a muscle, or I'll shoot."
The Angel lifted two fingers to the center of his forehead.
"Tell me, detective. How do you kill something that is already dead?"
Yohan's hand shook violently. His finger squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The sound echoed.
When the smoke cleared, the Angel stood untouched. Behind him, the officer's head snapped back. Blood splattered the wall.
The Angel laughed, voice like broken glass. "I am no longer needed here."
The lights flickered. Then darkness.
When the lights came back on, the Angel was gone. Only the body remained—slumped in the chair, lifeless. And in the pooling blood, a new message was written:
Help me. Help me. It burns. The sins burn me alive.
Yohan dropped his revolver, face pale, mind breaking.
The other officers stormed the room. They saw only Yohan, the gun in his hand, and the dead body before him.
"Detective Yohan," one shouted. "You're under arrest!"
Yohan didn't resist. His eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if repeating the words he could no longer say aloud:
Help me. Help me. It burns.