The sky was a dying ember.
Hana watched it bleed from tangerine to bruised violet, the stain of night seeping in from the edges like spilled ink. It was not a peaceful fade. It was a surrender. A cool, salt-tinged breeze lifted the fine hairs at her temples, carrying with it the last warmth of a sun that would not rise. She drew her knees tighter to her chest, the cool, granular sand shifting beneath her bare feet. There were no tears left. They had been spent in frantic, private torrents days ago, when the certainty had become a stone in her gut. Now, there was only this hollowed-out calm, this eerie quiet where her heartbeat was too loud.
Beside her, Jin was a solid, silent silhouette against the darkening sea. His presence was the only real thing left in the world.
"I didn't think it would end like this, y'know?" Her voice was a murmur, almost lost in the sigh of the retreating surf. She didn't look at him, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the last sliver of light was being swallowed. "So… peaceful. It doesn't feel peaceful, though. We're going to die. Isn't that scary?"
She finally chanced a glance at him. His profile was calm, but his eyes held the same bottomless, weary understanding. It made her smile, a fragile, broken thing. His face always did that to her, even now, especially now. It snapped the cold dread that had been clinging to her bones.
"Isn't it ironic?" she continued, the words tumbling out soft and raw. "That we're going to die, but here we are, just… sitting. Maybe everyone's already gone through all the stages. Bargaining, anger… all of it. Maybe this is just acceptance." She hugged her knees tighter, a shiver that wasn't entirely from the breeze running through her. "Shouldn't we be… I dunno. Screaming? Fighting? I just feel… quiet."
She fell silent, the enormity of 'quiet' pressing down on her. The world was ending, and the soundtrack was the gentle lap of waves. It was obscene.
"I'm a bit scared," she whispered, the admission a secret told to the dusk. "Are you?"
A 'bit' was the lie of the millennium. She was terrified, a cold, formless terror that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the vast, unknowable after. She sniffled, hard, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. No more tears. You're done with those.
"Do you…" she started, then stopped, her voice fraying. She tried again, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. "What do you think happens after?"
Jin was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, and utterly drained of hope. "To be true? Nothing. You just die. It's like going to sleep but you can't dream, think, or exist at all. Nothingness."
He finally turned his head to look at her, and in the failing light, she saw it: not fear, but a profound, cosmic exhaustion. A calm that was really just defeat.
"But I wish there was a heaven," he said, his gaze drifting back to the blackening sea. "Or even a hell. Cause I'd rather live in hell than not live at all."
The raw truth of it stole her breath. She reached out, her fingers finding his in the sand. They were warm. Real. She clung to them, an anchor in the dissolving world.
"I don't want to think about it," she breathed, her voice trembling. "About there being nothing. I can't imagine a world without dreams, without thoughts, without… without you." She leaned her head against his shoulder, seeking his solidness, his warmth. A sob threatened to break loose, but she swallowed it down. "You're right, though. I'd rather face hell than that. Than nothing at all."
She squeezed his hand, a desperate, silent pact. Wherever it is, let it be together.
"Promise me," she whispered, the words fierce and fragile against his sleeve. "Promise me that you won't give up. That even if the world ends, you'll keep… being. However you can. Promise me."
She didn't hear his answer. Or perhaps he didn't give one. The last of the light vanished. The stars did not come out. There was only a profound, silent pressure, a sense of the universe holding its breath.
Then, a flash. Not of light, but of its absolute opposite. A silent, white negation that consumed the sea, the sky, the sand, the warmth of Jin's hand in hers.
Everything was unmade.
---
Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, bewildered seep.
Hana blinked, her eyes struggling against a soft, pervasive glow. She was lying on a surface that yielded like cloud yet held her firm. She pushed herself up, the motion feeling weightless, and her breath caught.
She was in a palace of impossible scale and serene beauty. Towers of luminous white stone soared into a pearlescent sky. The air itself seemed to hum with a faint, celestial harmony, a vibration felt in the soul, not the ears. And everywhere, people. Thousands, tens of thousands, all in various states of disorientation—standing, sitting, weeping, staring in mute wonder.
Jin.
Panic, sharp and immediate, sliced through the awe. She scrambled to her feet, her head whipping around, her eyes scanning frantically over the crowd. She pushed past a man staring at his translucent hands, sidestepped a woman weeping with joy.
"Jin?" Her call was weak, swallowed by the vastness. "Jin!"
He wasn't there. The beach was gone. The end had come. And she was alone in this… this…
Her gaze was dragged upward, to the center of this impossible palace. A throne. It was a mountain of shimmering, living gold, so vast it defied comprehension, radiating a gentle, terrifying power. This was no mere seat. It was the axis of a new reality.
A collective gasp rippled through the multitude. On the throne, light coalesced, condensed, and became. A figure, as vast as the throne itself, formed from pure, benevolent radiance. It had no face, no features, yet its attention fell upon them all, a weight as soft as sunlight and as heavy as a world.
"Greetings, my beloved."
The voice was not a sound. It was the idea of a voice, planted directly into the soil of her mind. It was warmth, certainty, and finality.
"I am the Almighty. The mortal realm is shattered. It exists no longer. There is only what remains: this Kingdom, and the Fires below."
The words landed with the force of a planetary collision. Shattered. Not ended, not transformed. Shattered. A vase dropped onto stone. The beach, the cities, the trees, the oceans—all so much cosmic dust. Hana's legs trembled. The man next to her sank to his knees with a soft moan.
"Because your departure was… untimely," the voice continued, a note of profound, cosmic pity in its tone, "I grant you a grace. Here, you will not be subjects under a watchful eye. You may carve your own path. You may choose your purpose. The Archangels will guide you to the choices before you. That is all."
The light began to fade, the immense presence withdrawing. The sense of direct attention lifted, leaving them in a stunning, terrifying freedom.
For a moment, there was perfect silence. Then, the whispers began, swelling into a wave of confused and desperate sound.
Before it could crest into chaos, they descended.
From the gleaming arches and vaulted ceilings, figures emerged. They were not uniform. Some had wings of fiery light, others of cascading crystal, others of gentle, dawn-colored mist. They moved with an authority that stilled the noise. Hana stared, her heart a frantic bird in a cage of ribs.
One stepped forward, his wings like folded blades of sunlight, his presence a clarion call to order. He raised a hand, and the space around him seemed to grow still and sharp.
"I am Michael, of the Seraphim Choir," he announced, his voice clear and resonant, leaving no room for question. "The Almighty has spoken. You have been granted the grace of agency. Now, you must wield it. You will choose the nature of your eternity. We are here to show you the paths."
A second being glided forward, their energy softer, their wings like the gentle sheen on a healing wound. "I am Raphael," they said, and their voice was like a balm. "We of the Integrationist Choir believe in the gentle assimilation of the soul's unique light into the celestial chorus. We tend the Gardens of Remembrance, where the beauty of what was is honored. We walk the Halls of Reconciliation."
A third emerged, their form seemingly carved from glacial silver, their gaze piercing and severe. "I am Uriel, of the Traditionalist Choir." Their voice was the snap of frost, clean and cutting. "Do not mistake freedom for anarchy. Structure is the foundation of this Paradise. Duty, clarity, purity—these are the pillars that prevent a return to chaos. We maintain the borders, the laws, the sacred order."
Hana listened, but their words were just noise. Her eyes were still darting through the crowd, a futile, desperate search. She couldn't breathe. The beauty was a suffocating blanket.
She lurched forward, breaking from the stunned crowd, her voice a ragged thread. "Wait! Please!"
The eyes of the three Archangels fell upon her. Michael's were assessing. Raphael's held patient curiosity. Uriel's were chips of icy diamond.
"My friend," Hana choked out, the word inadequate. "Jin. He was with me. He's not here. How do I find him? Is he… in another part of the city?"
The Archangels exchanged a glance, a fleeting moment of silent communication that felt heavier than words.
It was Raphael who answered, their kindness suddenly feeling like a polished wall. "The Sorting is instantaneous and perfect, child. All who belong here, are here. This gathering is complete. If your companion is not among us… his essence resonated with a different finality. His path lies elsewhere."
Elsewhere. The word hung in the perfumed air, a synonym for damnation.
Uriel's silver gaze hardened, fixing on Hana. "To fixate on a soul not present is to cling to a shadow of the old world. It is a weight that will sink you in this sea of peace. Let it go. Your eternity begins with the choice before you, not the memory behind you."
The dismissal was absolute. Michael gave a single, firm nod, his attention already moving to the greater crowd. "The Integrationists offer solace. The Traditionalists offer strength and purpose. Consider, and choose."
They began to turn, their attendants—lesser angels with calm faces—moving to herd the masses into nascent lines.
Hana stood frozen, Raphael's gentle negation and Uriel's cold verdict ringing in her soul. Let it go. The three most impossible words ever spoken.
She looked at the serene, purposeful angels. She looked at the other souls, already beginning to follow, their confusion slowly smoothing into resignation or hope. A path of solace? A path of strength?
A cold, hard clarity crystallized within her, sharper than any heavenly diamond. Solace was a trap. Strength on their terms was a cage. Jin was not a memory. He was a promise, whispered on a darkening beach. And if Heaven's gates were closed to that promise, then Heaven's rules were her enemy.
Her eyes, dry now and burning with a new kind of fire, lifted from the gentle guides and found Michael. The warrior. The one who spoke of agency, but also of borders and choirs. The one whose path seemed most likely to hold maps, weapons, and knowledge of the "elsewhere."
She would not find Jin by weeping in a garden or memorizing laws. If she had to become a soldier in the armies of light to learn how to storm the gates of darkness, she would.
She stepped forward, her voice quiet but no longer trembling, cutting through the murmuring crowd towards the Archangel of the Sunlight Blade.
"Archangel Michael," she said, her chin lifted. "I choose your path. I choose the Seraphim."