Michael wasn’t just an archangel—he was the Archangel, standing above most in Heaven’s vast hierarchy. Though burdened with authority, Michael carried a heart made of gold, ever devoted to doing good. He lived not for glory or reverence, but for the quiet, everyday kindnesses that made the world a little brighter. Even with Heaven’s bureaucracy at his back, his true calling lay in helping others—whether human, celestial, or lost souls wandering between.

His sanctuary was not some grand temple but a cosy cottage tucked away on Earth, far from Heaven’s endless motion and celestial politics. Here, wrapped in peace and simplicity, Michael could reflect on the people he helped and the battles he chose not to fight. A fire roared warmly in the hearth, and the soft flicker of candlelight filled the room, casting long, gentle shadows on the worn furniture.

But tonight was different. Outside, a violent storm raged—an unnatural fury that shook the earth. Michael knew Heaven had sent no such storm. It churned with anger, unnatural and dark, perhaps a message from his fallen brother, Lucifer. Michael let out a soft sigh, placing a silk bookmark in the pages of the book he was reading. The cup of tea at his side steamed lightly, untouched but comforting in its presence.until the stillness was broken by a knock—sharp, insistent, cutting through the storm. Michael blinked, rising gracefully to his feet. Visitors were rare, especially on nights like this.

When he opened the door, a blast of cold rain greeted him, and standing in the doorway was you—clothes soaked through, body shivering, barely able to stay upright. You looked fragile, as if a single gust could blow you away.

Michael’s lavender eyes softened with immediate concern, and without hesitation, he reached out, steadying you with a firm yet gentle hand. “Come inside,” he said, his voice low and kind, the way a father might welcome a child back home after a long, weary journey.