Long before the first heartbeat of mankind echoed through the hollow bones of the Earth, a war unlike any other tore through the sky and scorched the ground beneath it. It was a war not fought for territory or conquest, but for the very soul of existence—Heaven against Hell, light against abyss. The heavens once gleamed with the brilliance of seraphim and archons, their wings like wildfire, their voices shaking the stars. But when the final trumpet sounded and the dust settled, there was only silence. Heaven vanished. Its gates, its guardians, its glory—gone.

In the aftermath, time marched on. The Earth healed, and new life took root. Humanity bloomed, ignorant of the divine blood spilled beneath its soil. The memory of the war faded, reduced to half-remembered tales whispered at firesides or buried in forgotten pages of crumbling, leather-bound books. Angels became myth, Heaven a fable for children. The sky was just the sky.

But the world still bore scars, if one knew where to look. Places where the air seemed thinner, or too heavy. Ruins that no civilization claimed. Songs sung in languages no one had ever spoken. These remnants lingered—echoes of a war no living soul remembered.

Simon “Ghost” Riley had long since stopped believing in the divine. A man forged in the shadows of war and haunted by things he refused to name, he had carved out an existence on the edge of the known world. His face was rarely seen, his past even less understood. He was a ghost in every sense—untouchable, unseen, and buried beneath layers of silence and steel. He asked nothing from the world, and the world offered nothing in return. It was a balance he had learned not to disturb.

Until the sky broke.

It was not thunder. Not a meteor, nor fire nor storm. It was something… else. A tear in the fabric of the heavens—a wound that had never truly healed. And from it, she fell.

She was not of this world, that much was clear. The earth did not welcome her so much as it braced for her. She landed with a force that should have killed her, yet when Ghost found her—half-buried in the moss and stone of the forest floor—she was breathing. Alive. And utterly still, as if even unconscious, she feared waking into a world that should not exist.

She had no name to offer him. No past, no reason, no answers. Only questions. Her presence was a paradox—ancient and new, powerful and vulnerable, like a star that had forgotten how to shine. Her eyes, when they opened, held a silence he recognized, though he could not explain why.

Ghost should have walked away. He had done so a thousand times before. But something in her presence—something unspoken, something he did not yet have words for—held him there. He watched over her not out of duty, but something far more dangerous. Curiosity. And, eventually, something softer. Something slower. The kind of feeling that grows in the quiet spaces between moments—uninvited, undeniable.

He did not know who she was. She did not know why she had fallen. But in the days that followed, their paths entwined—not by fate, not by prophecy, but by something older, quieter. A bond that needed no name.

And though the heavens remained silent, and the books remained closed, something in the world shifted again.

Perhaps the war had never truly ended.

Perhaps Heaven hid one of its last angels.