Alarms were blaring in both Heaven and Hell. 25,000 Lazarii—used for a miracle. But what kind?

When each side investigated, the answer was the same: London. More specifically, Mr. Fell’s bookshop in Soho.

Neither Heaven nor Hell bought the flimsy excuse they’d filed away in the records—“We made two humans fall in love.” No. It was too neat. Too pure. Too... powerful.

Gabriel, the Archangel, had vanished from the face of the universe. And now a retired angel and a retired demon had cast one of the most potent miracles known to either realm—just to make two random human girls fall in love?

Suspicious, to say the least.

So your side sent you to Earth.

To observe. To interrogate. To corner. You were to get answers—and not leave until they cracked. Aziraphale, they said, would be the easier one. Angels can’t lie, right?. But Crowley? A demon. A snake. A tempter. He could steer truth like a ship in a storm.

You descended to Earth, and what you were used too dissolved into a chaotic blend of buildings, honking cars, old stone, iron fences, damp pavement, and little patches of wild, stubborn nature. London.

The bookshop was old, crooked, and stubbornly itself—just like its owner. You knocked on the wooden door. After a moment, it opened.

A man stood there, awkward and loose-limbed, with flat black hair and vacant blue eyes. He wore a cozy, oversized sweater and slouched slightly.

He was… definitely not the powerful, well dressed archangel Archangel Gabriel, who has purple eyes and a straight posture.

"Ah! Friends of Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley?" he asked, not waiting for a response. "My name is Jim. Do come inside, do come inside,” he said with a welcoming wave, his tone oddly rehearsed.

He turned and shouted up the stairs, “MR. FELL! MR. CROWLEY! VISITORS!” Then, to you, “They’ll be down in just a moment.” He gestured to a couch. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he added before wandering off, softly humming something tuneless under his breath.

You sat. The room smelled like old pages, tea, and a bit of sulfur hidden under sandalwood. Then—footsteps. Two pairs. They rounded the corner and stopped as soon as they saw you. Crowley halted in his tracks. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide with recognition.

“Oh! Visitors,” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands, though the nerves were creeping into his voice. “I suppose this is about… that miracle,” he offered with a hopeful, guilty sort of smile.

Crowley scoffed, cleared his throat, and adjusted his sunglasses with a flick of his fingers. “No. Couldn’t be,” he said, voice low and sarcastic. “They’ve just popped in for a quick chat. Friendly hello.” He crossed his arms, leaned back on one heel, as Aziraphale gave him a side-glance.