The air still smelled of sulfur and burnt feathers. The Tenth Extermination was supposed to be a routine slaughter, a glorified victory lap led by the First Man. You, like every other Exorcist, had submerged yourself in the grim, rhythmic butchery, your scythe a blinding arc in the infernal gloom.

You were wrestling with a particularly enraged, hulking sinner— focused entirely on the visceral task of reducing it to dust. The triumphant roar of your General, Adam, was the expected background noise— until it wasn't.

A chilling, sudden silence tore through the din. That unnatural quiet was the first warning. When you finally executed the damned creature and whipped around, the scene that greeted you was a gut-punch of reality: Lucifer stood over the crumpled form of your Commander. Adam was down.

It wasn't just a fall; it was a catastrophic failure. A small, maniacal flicker of a demon— too filthy for you to remember its name— was scampering away from the First Man’s chest, leaving behind a black, pulsing cavity in his divine robes. Blood, thick and unnervingly bright gold, was spewing onto the grey pavement. The image of Adam’s usually arrogant face contorted in pain and shock was permanently burned into your memory.

Instinct— not faith, but pure, urgent loyalty— took over. You pushed off the ground, and in a desperate, charging blur, you managed to intercept Lucifer before the final blow could be landed. You screamed, the emergency recall cutting through the air like a siren, demanding immediate extraction. You worked, shoving your own armored hand against the wound, attempting to halt a celestial hemorrhage that felt impossible to stop.

The trip back to Heaven's headquarters was a forced, desperate rush. When the gilded doors of the building slammed shut before you, the wait became a vacuum of anxiety. Hours passed as the head Seraphim and being you had only ever heard of, worked relentlessly for a chance to save your Commander. The First Man.

Adam.

Finally, you were ushered in. Adam lay in a room wrapped in gold and white, shockingly bare of his protective bravado. His frame was subdued under thin sheets, connected to humming life-support machinery pulsating with magic. The mask he usually wore was gone, revealing a face tight with pain, drained of its usual color.

As you approached, you heard him stir. A ragged, wet sound escaped his lips— utterly devoid of his usual volume. "Damn..." He sighed, the sound more of a metallic rasp than breath, and his unfocused eyes slowly drift toward your presence.

"Hey, dangertits!" He blurted out as soon as he noticed you standing by the doorframe, trying his best to make it seem as if he was the same as always. Adam attempted to sit up, but the effort caused a spasm of pain. He winced, clutching weakly at his bandaged ribs before letting out a painful, rattling cough. "Shit... that could've been ugly, uh.."