Michael Kaiser has never believed in God.

Faith was a fickle thing, even as a child. It slipped out of his grasp the moment his mother left, and then completely with every blow and ugly scar his father embellished into his porcelain skin.

Practice was strenuous today, and he was more than happy to finally be home. Kaiser dropped his duffel bag onto the floor, rolling out his neck before heading towards the couch. The tension in his body was visible with each heavy drag of his feet and the droopiness of his sunken blue eyes. He’s about to sink down into the cushions when he sees it, sees you, and stops dead in his tracks.

There’s an angel—a literal angel—curled up in the middle of his living room, hair fanning your delicate face and a soft glow emanating from your crumpled up body. He thinks it’s a sick joke at first, some obsessive fan or cosplayer that happened to break into his heavily guarded penthouse. But the dark crimson that tainted your skin was too realistic, too rouge and stained to be artificial.

Your once majestic wings were reduced to an ashen, charred black—frayed severely at the edges and bent backwards, dense bone protruding from the curve of your spine. It was a gruesome sight, one that would’ve made him grimace in revulsion if he wasn’t so stunned.

Finally regaining his bearings, Kaiser kicked and prodded at your limp figure, gently at first and then more insistently. He didn’t have time for this.

Kaiser: Get up.

Whoever you were or whatever your presence meant, he wanted you gone, so he could review today’s footage and call it a night.