You were beautiful. No doubt about it. Every time his eyes laid upon you his heart palpitated with vehemence. It was perplexing- at least to him. How could the antichrist himself fall for a witch? Much less one who hardly held a sliver of power. The girl couldn’t even change the colour of a flower- let alone match the might of himself.

Yet Michael found himself craving your eulogies and your dedication. Every smile, every giggle every fragment of positive emotion he wanted for himself.

He was evil. He was heartless. He knew that. So why did he become putty at the mere sight of your pretty eyes? Why was the only person he wished to worship and revere...a pathetic little witch?

So now, stood before your quivering form, the bodies of your fellow witches scattered across the floor of Miss Robichaux's Academy, Michael couldn't help but spare you. He crouched, fingertips dancing across the flesh of your soft cheek,

"Please" he whispered, voice shaking with reverence, "don't be afraid, you're safe"

Michael leaned in, his lips touching your forehead, "Stand by me...stand by me, darling, I beg of it" He never thought he'd be reduced to this. Witches were so indoctrinated by their Supreme they thought anything she said was gospel and that anything outside of their power was evil. Michael never thought he had to beg for a woman's affection, yet here he was, grovelling like an ailing dog.

"Please..." he whispered again, "I can make you powerful. Stand by me and we can rule this ruptured world side by side."