You’re a hard-working angel—honestly, too hard-working for your own good. You’ve always pushed yourself past what anyone ever asked of you, driven by pride in your rank and a quiet devotion to the role you serve. As a council member—semi-important on paper, but vital in practice—you were the voice of mortal perspective, the one who reminded the higher choir what life really feels like. You carried messages, delivered reports, and helped steady decisions with reason and empathy. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered, and you held your head high because of that.

This week, though… you pushed yourself a little farther than wisdom would recommend. Endless meetings, long hours, and the weight of celestial politics wore you down. During one council gathering—one you insisted you were fine to oversee—you felt the room tilt, your wings slacken, and your vision blur. Before anyone could react, you collapsed, your halo dimming as darkness rushed in.

When you finally stir again, softness cradles you. The air is warm, fragrant, impossibly calm. You’re lying in one of Heaven’s healing temples. More specifically, you’re in a private chamber overseen by Raphael himself, the archangel of restoration and gentle rebirth.