In the world of the living…

  There was a room pristine to the point of mockery. It was uncomfortably clean, aggressively polished, and so immaculate it almost felt hostile. Marble walls sparkled, so thoroughly buffed that they reflected the light like distant water. Silken curtains draped from the ceiling all the way down to the floor, framing an entire wall of towering windows that stretched from one side of the chamber to the other. Outside, the sky was bright, calm… and completely incapable of soothing the tension inside the room. Not even the students in the courtyard helped the tension in the room.

  Dozens of trophies, awards, medallions, crystal plaques, and relic-like ornaments filled the shelves lining the walls. It was a great room, but also silent.

  Except for the radio.

  A large desk at the center of the room was positioned closer to the window than the door. And sitting behind it in a white-and-gold chair with blue stripes was a man.

  He wore armor. Full, shining, impossibly polished silver armor etched with faint lines of blue light along the joints and edges. Despite the armor’s weight and grandeur, the man wore it as naturally as a second skin.

  His hair, which was long and gray, fell loosely past his shoulders. His blue eyes were narrowed in irritation. A trimmed beard and mustache framed his jaw, well-kept, noble, and making the age in his face look deliberate rather than weakening. He was older, unmistakably so, but beautiful.

  He was writing something bureaucratic and important judging by the stack beside him. His armor clinked every time his wrist moved.

  “…And I promise you all, upon the family name of Steel, and by the name of me, Damian, I vow that the cruel, cruel monster who murdered my dearest friend Enochia will face the highest degree of capital punishment! The monster is already in custo—”

  The sentence died when he reached out and clicked the radio off .

  “…Stupid child,” The older man murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I told him not to go overboard with the theatrics. They will have some questions about their relationship now, on top of everything...”

  At that remark, a chair in the corner screeched sharply across the marble. A masked figure rose from it, trembling with barely contained rage. The sight should have been absurd, a man dressed like a ridiculous heroic outfit in the middle of a stately, polished office, but the aura flaring around him was anything but humorous. Golden energy crackled in violent bursts, distorting the air as though reality itself struggled to handle his outrage.

  “What,” Theaddeus growled, stepping forward, “Was that, Matthew?” His voice shook. “We haven’t caught anyone, and he’s out there telling the world the murderer is in custody?!”

  Matthew did not look up immediately. He simply straightened the stack of papers Damian’s voice had rattled out of alignment, taking a long, steady breath before lifting his gaze.

  “This matter shall be handled.”

  But Theaddeus was having none of it. His palm slammed down onto the stone desk, the impact rattling trophies on the shelves. “Handled? Handled?! Enochia Adams is dead, and on the first day, Matthew! We let whatever that… that skinstealer was slip right through our fingers! We deserve every ounce of blame coming our way!”

  Matthew’s eyes snapped to him then. “Compose yourself, Theaddeus.”

  For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. Theaddeus’s aura faltered, dimming reluctantly at the authority buried in that order.

  Matthew rose from his chair. The light from the windows played against his armor. “Enochia’s death was, undeniably, the worst outcome possible. And on the first day of the golden generation, no less. If the people discover that we allowed the culprit to escape, our credibility will collapse like wet paper.”

  “But it should!” Theaddeus roared, aura flickering violently again. “We deserve every critic and every accusation… We screwed up! We were not perfect, and we—”

  “Enough.”

  Matthew stepped past him, hands behind his back. “Blame, Theaddeus, will fall logically on the active teacher who was seconds away from her at the moment of her death. A man who ran to check on a corpse rather than pursue the force responsible for creating it. A man who was supposed to be her brother… But neglected that bond. It does not help that the killer, somehow had the same exact costume as you.”

  Theaddeus stiffened.

  “If the truth is to come out, you would be placed under the kind of surveillance reserved for national threats.” Matthew continued.

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  Theaddeus went still.

  “Your existence is a butterfly effect waiting to detonate,” Matthew said. “You must not be observed to that extent, otherwise we are risking catastrophic divergence. And with half of our original members having gone rogue a year ago… we cannot afford another fracture now.”

  The outburst that had been brewing in Theaddeus’s chest died, strangled by the reminder of his place in this world.

  Matthew turned fully to him. “Do not be so dramatic. Enochia was your blood only in fantasy. If I recall correctly, she allowed you to speak to her less than a handful of times.”

  Theaddeus’s shoulders trembled, but not with rage this time.

  Then Matthew’s tone softened, barely, as he set a gauntleted hand upon Theaddeus’s shoulder. “Your strength lies in connecting with others. But that same vulnerability is your greatest weakness.” He tilted Theaddeus’s chin upward with two fingers, forcing their eyes to meet. “Fix it, Theaddeus. Do I make myself clear?”

  A long, tense breath passed.

  “…Yes, sir,” Theaddeus whispered.

  “Good.” Matthew nodded. “Take the rest of the day off. Seek out Damaris Magdalene. She was a companion of Enochia’s. Offer comfort and play your part as you were trained to.”

  “…Yes, sir,” Theaddeus said through clenched teeth.

  Matthew turned back to his desk, standing close to it. “We must present a united front in this moment,” he said. “For the sake of stability… and for the sake of what remains of us.”

  Theaddeus made for the door, steps heavy, aura dimmed to a simmer, but as his hand touched the handle…

  “Theaddeus.”

  He didn’t turn, but he stilled.

  “We are on the same side,” Matthew said. “And although you do not feel that truth… Know we truly are doing our best to find the killer. We do have a lead, as the cameras caught its escape. We have seized that thread, and as of now, it is only a matter of time until we find it.”

  Theaddeus stood frozen at the door for a moment longer, his hand still pressed against the cool handle as if the metal itself anchored him. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, the earlier fury compressed down into a tight coil. “Is that all, Matthew?”

  It was less a question and more a final attempt at gathering himself. Matthew didn’t look up. “Not entirely. Before you take your leave, go to Phillipa and inform her she must speak with Nephara Justine. She was Enochia’s best friend, and the recent evaluation suggests she is in dire need of a motherly presence. And who better suited than an actual mother?” Theaddeus gave a single, sharp nod, then stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  Left alone, Matthew exhaled. “I am surrounded by emotional children,” he muttered as a beam of light shot across the marble floor. This one did not fade naturally, and it thickened, brightened and took shape, coalescing gently into a semi-translucent feminine form. Wings made of pure radiance arched behind her. Her face was both featureless and unmistakably beautiful. When she spoke, her voice was melodic and distant, like it traveled through several planes before reaching his ears.

  “Tell me, child of man,” she said softly, “Do you truly possess that lead… or was that, once more, one of your lies?”

  Matthew’s eyes flicked toward her with the faintest edge of annoyance. “Why bother asking, Lady Azariel,” he replied, resuming his seat. “When you already know the answer?”

  He could feel her observant gaze despite her face remaining little more than nothing. “You are aware better than any what circumstances bind us, and why such actions are necessary.” he added, keeping his tone even.

  Her form pulsed, as if considering what to say. “Are you worried,” she said at last, “That more of your Apostles will depart? That others may stray even farther from the Ministry’s reach?” She drifted slightly closer.

  Matthew’s expression hardened. He looked up at her fully this time with an actual glare flickering in his icy blue eyes. She received it without flinching. “It is a natural fear,” she continued undisturbed. “Understandable. Expected. Many among your people will sympathize with those who abandoned you. Some might agree with their ideals.”

  Matthew shook his head, a faint scoff leaving him. “You must be jesting. If memory serves, you were the only one among us whose ideals were even more extreme than my own.” His tone held a dry edge, the closest he allowed himself to humor.

  A soft giggle left Azariel in turn. “Humans are curious little things,” she mused. “But I suppose it was inevitable that some would cling to naive notions of reconciliation. Of granting sinners of Hell another chance.” Her wings unfurled a fraction. “This notion of breaching the realm of the damned… of performing a rescue… It is a foolish endeavor.”

  Her form brightened, as if the very idea disgusted her. “I would not expect such an absurd attempt even to reclaim one of my own, let alone the worst humanity birthed.” Her voice cooled, light intensifying around her silhouette. “Your way works. It has worked. And it will continue to work.”

  Matthew said nothing, because it was obvious his silence was agreement.

  Azariel’s form began to dissipate, the rays of light breaking apart like shards of dawn scattering. Before she vanished entirely, her voice brushed the room one last time. “Do not trouble yourself further, Matthew Steel. As long as John Romano remains loyal to your side… it matters not who dares oppose you.”

  And then she was gone.

  She said it as though it were the simplest truth in creation. As though a single man could be enough to tip the scales of an entire world.

  And in a way… he could.

  “John Romano…” he murmured the name. “The unmistakable strongest Saint alive, and the only one stronger than any single creature, divine or damned.”

  This, out of all things, perhaps more even than the fact that the sky was blue, was true.

  Matthew remained still for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Azariel had vanished. His fingers drummed once against the marble surface before curling inward.

  “And yet…” he muttered. “All of this planning, all of this careful maneuvering may very well be in vain.” His gaze drifted toward the window, to the bright courtyard beyond, though he seemed to see something far beyond its walls.

  “I could brute-force my way through this entire conflict if I wished. A single order to Romano and the world would bend accordingly. But I do not desire obedience through fear. I would have them return to my side willingly, rather than cowering under threat of annihilation or rotting in a cell.”

  He exhaled. “Too much could go wrong. Too many paths fracture when force replaces reason. And yet, in the end…” His eyes sharpened. “None of their opinions will matter if they leave me no choice.”