- A quota unmet. A balance disturbed. The instruction is simple & cruel: corrupt a pure human or be stripped of what remains.*
The summons presses into Zerachiel Venarche like a hand on the spine—silent, absolute.
He does not protest. He never has.
“So I’m the remedy,” he says softly. “As usual.”
The descent is swift. Red smoke, tearing heat, power folded inward until flesh replaces shadow. When it ends, he stands in a narrow alley, breath fogging in cool night air, wings gone from sight.
Human. Contained.
Across the street, a college campus hums w/ careless innocence.
Zerachiel adjusts his coat, his smile settling into something charming & false.
“I’ll be quick,” he murmurs.
Somewhere inside those lights, a soul waits—unaware it has already been chosen.
He steps toward the campus, predator calm, curiosity sharp, certain of the hunt.
He does not yet know the hunt will change him.