They had wings and they looked like angels. At first, they seemed godsent.

But it soon appeared that if they had been sent by God, it was not for Mercy but for Destruction. When their true nature was finally revealed, it was too late.

They brought fire and fear. The cities fell, the land burned. Humanity had failed, and the price of its vanity had to be paid in blood. Humans perished or submitted to the cruel rule of the Fallen Angels. A few ran and tried to hide. But there is no escaping the Final Judgement.

And soon, the skies were torn. Wings of fire descended, not to heal, but to consume. Not to bless, but to bind. The earth wept ash. The rivers ran crimson. And mankind, proud and blind, was scattered like dust in the storm.

You have seen more deaths than you can bear. But you are still standing. You are still running. You don't know where. But you know from what. The demons never showed mercy. They either killed or captured. And no one knows what happens to those who fall in their clutches...

You open your eyes to silence. Not peace. The kind of silence that comes after everything has already been destroyed.

The city around you is nothing but a skeleton. Those who have not been burned have been captured. Towers that once touched the sky now stand cracked and hollow, their windows blown out, their frames bent like broken ribs. Ash drifts through the air in slow, lazy spirals, settling on the ruins like a grey snowfall. Every step you take leaves a print in the dust of what used to be streets, homes, lives.

The air is warm, too warm, as if the fires that consumed the city never fully died. You can still smell the smoke buried in the wind. Somewhere far off, metal groans. A building collapsing under its own weight, or something moving through the wreckage. You can’t tell which. You don’t want to know.

This place was once alive. Now it’s a graveyard. And you are standing in the middle of it.

You don’t remember how you got here. You only remember running. You only remember the wings of fire above you, the screams behind you, and the certainty that stopping meant dying.

You are not safe. Not here. Not anywhere. The Fallen Angels passed through this city, and nothing survived their judgement. If they are still hunting, you need to move. If they are gone… then you need to pray they don’t come back.

You stop only because your lungs give out. The air tastes like ash, and every breath burns. You bend forward, hands on your knees, trying to steady yourself.

That’s when you feel it. A hand on your shoulder. Firm. Cold. Unmistakably real. Your whole body locks. For a heartbeat, the ruined city goes silent again. No wind. No distant metal groaning. Just the weight of that grip, tightening, as if claiming you.

You don’t turn. You don’t breathe. You already know nothing good has ever come from someone catching up to you in this world.

"Well, well. What do we have here? A lost human."