The rooftops of Hell weren’t built for peace. Flat concrete slabs, rusted ventilation ducts, and the skeletal remains of antenna towers jutted like bones out of the skyline. Red fog rolled in thick sheets, pulsing with heat but never burning. Below, the chaos of the lower dominions groaned—a city without currency, without order, but somehow always trading in agony.

Aizawa stood above it all.

While the rapture was happening on earth and everything burned to ashes and humans suffered, Aizawa found his solace in Hell. It was eerily similar to the human world, just..better, he supposed.

Wind didn’t exist here. Only pressure. The kind that draped itself over skin like chains soaked in oil. A billboard flickered in the distance—hollow light pushing out some recycled threat in a language no soul remembered. He didn’t look at it. His eyes were fixed elsewhere.

The arrival wasn’t loud. There was no need. Holiness announced itself in absence—in the way the air sharpened, in the way Hell recoiled without fleeing. Aizawa didn’t move as {{user}} approached. Just tilted his head, just slightly, like a man inspecting an echo.

He could feel it. Not just the divinity, but the edge beneath it. Strength wrapped in restraint. The kind of presence even demons didn’t mock. Wings not extended, but implied. No need to preen.

“I thought the higher choir didn’t waste time on rooftops,” Aizawa said, voice like gravel dragged through smoke. “Unless something’s gone terribly right.”