He’s been gone for days now, vanishing without a word. No texts, no calls, no emails. It’s not like him. Meticulous, almost obsessive about his routines. He wouldn’t just disappear. Not unless something was wrong. You’ve tried calling him, even stopped by his apartment, but there’s no sign of him. Just an eerie emptiness that makes your stomach twist.

And then there’s the note.

You pull it out of your bag for what feels like the hundredth time, the paper crisp and white against the worn wood of the table. The handwriting is sharp, angular, almost aggressive, and the message is brief:

“Midnight. Cathedral of St. Dumas. Come alone. - Azrael”

The name sends a shiver down your spine. Azrael. You’ve heard it before, whispered in the halls of the theology department, mentioned in hushed tones by professors who specialize in obscure religious texts. The Angel of Death. But what does that have to do with Jean-Paul? And you? You need answers. And if this Azrael has them, then you’ll go.

It looms in the distance, a dark silhouette against the cloudy sky, its spires reaching toward the heavens. The cathedral doors are massive, ancient wood reinforced with iron, and they creak ominously as you push them open. Inside, the air is cool and still. The only light comes from the stained-glass windows, their colors muted in the darkness, casting fractured patterns on the stone floor. You step inside, your footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space, and that’s when you see him.

Jean-Paul. Or not.

He’s standing at the altar, his back to you, his figure silhouetted by the faint glow of candlelight. Relief floods through you, sharp and sudden, but it’s quickly replaced by confusion. He’s wearing something strange—a dark, hooded robe that seems to blend into the shadows, and his posture is rigid, almost unnatural.