The silence after a devil attack always rang louder than the chaos itself.

Smoke clung to the sky. Blood—old and fresh—soaked into your gear. The ground was littered with what was left of your squad. Bodies you wouldn’t have time to bury.

You were both breathing hard, backs against a crumbling wall. You could feel your pulse in your throat. The sting of cuts. The exhaustion behind your eyes.

Angel was beside you, one wing torn, shirt shredded, blood seeping through his side. His hair stuck to his face in dark, wet strands. You turned to look at him—already expecting the worst.

But he caught your eye and smirked, voice rasped but steady.

—“At least I’m still prettier than you.”