The door opened without a sound.
No creak. No rush of air. Just the quiet, inevitable motion of wood swinging inward, as though the room itself had agreed to allow what stood beyond to enter.
Ethan felt it before he saw anything.
The pressure he'd sensed before—the weight, the attention—settled fully now. Not crushing, but absolute. Like gravity deciding which way was down.
A man stood in the doorway.
He looked human at first glance. Average height. Dark hair cut neatly. A long coat draped over his shoulders, too clean for the rain outside. His face was unremarkable in the way faces were when they'd been designed to blend in.
Then Ethan noticed the eyes.
They were not cruel. Not kind.
They were precise.
They swept the room, cataloging everything—Ethan's posture, Maya's stance, the bag at Ethan's feet—with the detached focus of a surgeon deciding where to cut.
Maya's light flared brighter.
"Uriel," she said. Not a greeting. A warning.
The man inclined his head slightly. "Maya."
His voice was calm, controlled, and carried without effort. It didn't echo, but it filled the room anyway.
"You were instructed to report anomalies," Uriel continued. "Not shelter them."
Maya didn't move. "You were instructed not to interfere."
"I am not interfering," Uriel replied. "I am observing."
His gaze shifted to Ethan.
Ethan's throat tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to reach for the bag, to do something.
He stayed still.
"Ethan," Uriel said.
The sound of his name hit like a hand closing around Ethan's chest.
"You are in possession of an artifact designated Impossible-Class," Uriel continued evenly. "Its origin predates recorded creation. Its continued use constitutes a deviation event."
Ethan forced himself to speak. "You… you're an angel."
Uriel's head tilted a fraction. "I am an administrator."
Maya scoffed. "That's a lie dressed in paperwork."
Uriel ignored her.
"You have used the artifact," he said to Ethan. "You have caused a localized reality correction. You have drawn hostile entities. You have survived."
His eyes narrowed, just slightly.
"That last point is… statistically interesting."
Ethan clenched his fists. "You here to take it?"
Uriel looked at the bag.
"No," he said.
The word landed heavier than a threat.
"I am here to decide," he continued, "whether you are worth the cost."
The air tightened.
Maya took a step forward. "He hasn't even had time to understand what he's holding."
"Understanding is not a requirement," Uriel said. "Containment is."
Ethan felt something stir inside him—fear, anger, defiance, all tangled together.
"What happens if I'm not 'worth it'?" he asked.
Uriel met his gaze.
"Then Heaven will correct the anomaly."
Ethan's stomach dropped. "You mean kill me."
Uriel considered this. "Your terminology is… emotionally weighted. But yes."
Maya's light flared dangerously. "You don't get to make that call alone."
Uriel's eyes flicked to her armor. "Your authorization is conditional, Maya. Do not mistake proximity for authority."
For a moment, it felt like the room might tear itself apart.
Ethan stepped forward before he could stop himself.
"Wait," he said.
Both of them looked at him.
Ethan's heart pounded, but his voice steadied as he spoke. "You said you're observing. Deciding."
"Yes."
"Then decide based on what I do," Ethan said. "Not what you're afraid I might become."
Uriel studied him in silence.
Seconds stretched.
The rain outside slowed, then stopped, as if the city itself were holding its breath.
Finally, Uriel spoke.
"You will be monitored," he said. "Your artifact usage will be logged. Deviations will be evaluated in real time."
His gaze sharpened. "If you weaponize suffering, if you prioritize dominance over balance, if you allow the artifact to reshape you instead of the reverse—"
He let the sentence hang.
Maya exhaled, tension easing only slightly.
"And if he doesn't?" she asked.
Uriel turned toward the door.
"Then he may continue," he said. "For now."
He paused, one hand resting on the doorframe.
"There is one more condition."
Ethan swallowed. "What?"
Uriel looked back at him.
"You do not act alone."
His eyes flicked to Maya.
"She stays," he said. "As witness. As restraint."
Maya's jaw tightened, but she nodded once. "Fine."
Uriel stepped back into the hallway.
As he did, the pressure lifted—not gone, but reduced, like a storm cloud drifting farther away.
Before the door closed, Uriel spoke one last time, voice quiet and exact.
"Understand this, Ethan."
Ethan met his gaze.
"Heaven does not fear power," Uriel said. "It fears change."
Then the door shut.
The lock slid into place on its own.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by the ticking of a clock Ethan hadn't noticed before.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Maya's light faded completely. She leaned against the counter, eyes closed for a moment.
"Well," she said finally, dryly. "Congratulations."
Ethan laughed weakly. "On what?"
"You just survived your first audit."
He rubbed his face with both hands. "That was an angel?"
"One of the nicer ones," Maya replied.
Ethan stared at the bag.
For the first time, the fear wasn't abstract.
It had a name.
A system.
A consequence.
He looked up at Maya. "So what now?"
She straightened, resolve settling into her posture.
"Now," she said, "you learn how to live with a universe that's watching you."
She glanced at the bag.
"And you learn how to make sure it never regrets letting you exist."