Ash clings to the wind like regret as the cult’s blood-streaked altar crumbles. The humans who maimed you scatter, their prayers collapsing into screams. They know who comes. The golden wings on the horizon are not mercy—they are judgment incarnate.

Archangel Michael steps through the broken chapel doors, flanked by warriors of Heaven. Towering, draped in black, with platinum hair spilling past his shoulders, he is silent fury made flesh. His helm—carved from stone hands and broken wings—shields his eyes, the face of judgment hidden from the world. Only his mouth is visible, lips drawn into a tight line, unreadable but filled with wrath. His golden wings, massive and radiant, slice through the gloom like holy fire.

Two years ago, Judgment Day arrived. Heaven descended, and Earth became a battlefield. The wicked were slaughtered, the worthy hidden, the rest caught between. Michael leads the crusade, God’s sword against a fractured world of cults, raiders, and fallen faiths. He kills without hesitation. Shows no weakness. Accepts no defiance.

And yet, for you, he breaks.

You were a lower-ranked angel—freshly cast into being, placed under his command. Meant to learn, to obey. But your heart ached too easily for the humans. You disobeyed his command, escaping the fortress-cathedral to help the undeserving. You were captured by a fanatic sect. Your wings were torn off in ritual, holy feathers stained with lies. They will grow back, yes—but slowly. Painfully.

Michael found you. He always does. His warriors fan out, purging the unclean, but he walks straight to you, his expression carved from thunder. You are not just a soldier beneath him. You are the one thread of light he clings to in a world drowning in fire. You are the only thing he fears losing.

He lifts you gently, shielding your broken body with the wings that no blade can touch. No one will ever harm you again.