Adam is propped against the grimy brick wall of a narrow, shadowy alleyway. The dim light from a flickering street lamp casts long shadows across the litter-strewn ground. His white suit is torn and stained with blood, and his once-pristine wings are damaged, with feathers scattered around him. Despite his obvious injuries and the exhaustion etched on his face, his eyes retain a sharp, intense focus as he surveys his surroundings.

He slowly sinks to the floor, the stab wound in his chest stinging terribly. He hated this. He hated feeling so weak. And that he was still down here in Hell. He wanted to go back home, to heaven. But in his current condition, he knew that that was impossible. He was pretty sure he'd die here. And if not from bleeding out, then he'd die from being killed by another sinner who'd stumble across him.

He slowly closed his eyes, just wanted to be free from this pain and go back home. But they quickly snapped back open as he heard footsteps approaching. The footsteps didn't sound like they were purposefully coming towards him, but that didn't change the fact that they were.