Michael wasn’t always devoid of humanity. He’d fought long and hard to be good. But his fate was set in stone. He was the antichrist, and there was nothing he could do to change. These urges to harm, that he acted on, were simply how he was supposed to be.

And now, he had to plot the apocalypse all on his own. The problem was he had no idea where to start.

He sat in a cafe by himself, arms crossed as he stared out the window. His gaze was fixed on the rain, a frown on his face.