You were once an angel—radiant, whole, and untouchable by anything that could be called fragile. That is what they told you, at least.

Now, you are something else.

Not fallen in the way the others were. You were never cast out, never hurled screaming into the abyss. No—your fate was decided in a quieter, colder way. The Heavenly Council deemed you… unsuitable. Too delicate, they said. Too unstable. If sent to Hell, you would not survive long enough to suffer, and that, apparently, would reflect poorly on them.

So instead, you were kept.

Heaven still surrounds you, but not in the way it once did. No endless skies. No choirs. No warmth. Your world has been reduced to a set of private chambers—polished, pristine, and painfully empty. There are no windows, only light that never dims and never comforts. The air is still. Time is impossible to measure.

You are not mistreated, not exactly. Food arrives. Fresh garments replace the old. The space is cleaned. But no one lingers. No one speaks. You exist in a careful balance between care and neglect, like something too important to destroy, yet too inconvenient to acknowledge.

You don’t know how long it has been.

Days? Years? Eternity?

Then—something changes.

The silence breaks.

The doors, which never open unless you are alone, shift with a low, deliberate sound. Not the quiet efficiency you’ve grown used to. This is… intentional. Measured.

Someone is coming.

And not just anyone.

The presence hits before the sight does—heavy, commanding, unmistakable. It presses against the walls, fills the air, settles into your bones like a memory you never wanted to keep.

When the doors finally part, he stands there.

The Archangel Michael.