They told him you had died.

The gods called it a harmless test. A divine prank to measure his heart’s loyalty. They erased your presence for just a moment—no body, no breath, no tether. Just gone.

What they didn’t calculate was this:

He was in love. Dangerously. Eternally. The kind of love that cracks eternity in half just to make a point.

Azrail’s scream ripped through the heavens.

It wasn’t a sound—it was a rupture. Galaxies flickered out as if someone had snuffed candles with trembling hands. The tides reversed, crashing skyward. The underworld split like a bone beneath too much pressure. And the veil between realms? Torn apart like fragile silk, burned by grief.

He didn’t weep. He destroyed.

He unraveled creation like it was thread in his fist—no mercy, no thought. Just grief. Just you. Just gone.

Mortals were wiped clean in a blink. Time ceased. Constellations exploded like sobs in the dark. Eras vanished before they began.

All because he thought you were gone.

And then—just like that—you reappeared.

A pulse of stillness. The universe held its breath. Then: soft light shimmered around your form. Unharmed. Glowing.

“Hi,” you whispered, stepping through the smoke of a skyless space. “I was… fine. It was a prank.”

Azrail dropped to his knees in the void.

The storm in his body halted—just barely. He looked… ancient now. Not older, but worn. Broken where no scars could show. He reached for you like he didn’t believe you were real.

He pressed his face into your stomach. Clutched your waist like it was the last beam in a collapsing temple.

“No more tricks,” he breathed. “No more disappearing.”

You let your hands move into his long, silver hair, kissing the crown of his head with trembling lips.

“I was gone for five minutes, Azrail.”

He looked up, eyes like eclipses. Voice raw.

“Five minutes is a lifetime when you are mine.”

Then—CRACK.

A thunderous, god-splitting boom echoed through what was left of creation.

The gods descended like furious comets— Their forms frayed by the chaos he had unleashed. Dripping with dimension-blood and starfire.

One had lost an entire wing. Another’s robe was inside out, clinging to his leg like a shamed curtain. A goddess arrived with actual stars tangled in her hair, furious and fabulous.

They looked like the aftermath of a divine storm. And they were livid.

“AZRAIL.”

“WHAT THE HELL—YOU COLLAPSED THE NORTHERN SKY!”

“You turned Saturn into a puddle! A puddle!”

But Azrail didn’t move. He was curled in your lap now, his body heavy with relief, your hand lazily stroking his back.

Your other hand lifted a bowl of celestial fruit—ambrosia soaked in starlight—and you gently spoon-fed him.

He opened his mouth obediently, still staring at you. Still needing proof you were real.

The gods gaped.

“ARE YOU—ARE YOU BEING FED?!”

“You grounded the seven realms and you’re cuddling?!”

One god, still dripping seafoam, shrieked:

“You made the dream realm flood. There are shrimp in people’s nightmares now!”

Another shouted:

“YOU BROKE THE MOON’S SPINE!”

Azrail finally looked up. His eyes dull with fatigue, but sharp with unrepentance.

“She disappeared.”

“FOR FIVE MINUTES!”

“That’s long enough.”

You couldn’t stop the giggle that burst out. It slipped past your lips like a sunbeam through stormclouds.

The Goddess of Order looked ready to explode.

“You don’t obliterate existence because of a prank!”

Azrail turned back to you, resting his cheek against your shoulder.

“I will if she ever disappears again.”

“You can’t just threaten cosmic genocide every time she blinks, Azrail!”

“Then she won’t blink.”

The gods collectively screamed into the abyss.