Evelyn Arclight didn't look back.
She walked through the crowd like she belonged in it—like the capital wasn't the lair of the villain the world feared, but simply another place where people lived and made mistakes.
Azrael watched her until she disappeared past a curve in the street.
Then he turned slightly and continued walking, slow and calm, as if the encounter hadn't shaken the city's balance.
But I felt it.
That pressure again.
Like invisible fingers dragging across the pages of a book, checking if the story was still following its script.
"You recognized her name instantly," I said.
Azrael's boots clicked against stone. "I recognize all names that matter."
"That sounded defensive."
"It was factual."
I sighed. "She's not like the others."
"No," he admitted. "She's not."
He paused near a vendor's cart—an old man selling warm bread. The man's hands froze when Azrael stopped in front of him, and his face went pale as paper.
Azrael didn't speak like a king.
He simply reached into his coat, set a coin on the cart, and took a loaf.
The old man blinked as if the world had glitched.
Azrael turned and walked away.
"…You just bought bread," I said.
"Yes."
"Like a normal person."
Azrael took a bite without expression. "It tastes the same as it used to."
That small statement carried more weight than it should've.
Like he was trying to remember what life was before he became what fate demanded.
We didn't make it far before it happened.
It started with a sound.
A crack—sharp and sudden—like glass breaking somewhere deep inside reality.
Azrael stopped mid-step.
I froze too.
[Fate Interference Detected]
[Minor Event Altered]
[Cause: External Authority]
[Warning: Script Correction in Progress]
"What was that?" I asked.
Azrael's eyes lifted to the sky.
Nothing visible.
No storm. No lightning.
Just daylight.
And yet… the air felt wrong.
Too still.
Too cold.
A scream ripped through the street.
People turned.
A young boy had fallen near the canal—slipping on wet stone. He flailed in the water, arms striking the surface wildly.
The current wasn't strong.
Not strong enough to kill him.
Unless something… helped it.
The water around the child suddenly surged.
Like an unseen force yanked him down.
The crowd gasped.
A mother screamed his name and tried to run forward, but someone grabbed her back.
No one moved.
No one except Azrael.
He didn't teleport.
He didn't use flashy magic.
He simply stepped forward and reached out.
The boy rose out of the canal like he'd been lifted by invisible hands, coughing and sobbing.
Azrael set him gently on the ground.
For a second, the entire street fell into stunned silence.
The mother rushed forward, pulling the child into her arms.
Her eyes snapped up to Azrael.
She should have spat at him.
She should have cursed him.
Instead, she whispered with shaking lips:
"…Thank you."
Azrael didn't respond. He only nodded once and stepped back.
But his jaw tightened.
Because the canal water behind them rippled again—unnatural.
Like it was angry.
Like it had failed to kill.
"System," Azrael said softly in his mind, voice sharper now. "That was not an accident."
"I know," I replied, throat tight. "That was fate."
Or whatever controlled fate.
The crowd slowly resumed moving, but their eyes didn't leave him.
Not fear this time.
Not pure fear.
It was something messier.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
And—dangerously—hope.
Azrael turned away from the crowd and walked into a narrower side street, his pace faster now.
"We need to return to the spire," he muttered.
"Agreed."
But we didn't get two steps before the second interference hit.
A carriage thundered around the corner too fast, wheels sliding on the wet cobblestone.
The driver shouted, trying to pull the reins.
The horse panicked.
The carriage swerved right toward—
A group of children.
I felt something in the air. A tug. A push.
The carriage should have missed.
But it didn't.
It was being guided.
Forced.
Azrael's eyes narrowed.
His hand lifted.
The carriage stopped mid-air like it slammed into an invisible wall.
The horse froze, legs trembling, breath snorting steam.
People screamed.
Azrael lowered the carriage gently back down.
The driver collapsed crying, shaking violently.
He kept repeating the same sentence:
"I didn't— I swear I didn't—!"
Azrael didn't speak to him.
He stared at the street like he was staring at a ghost.
Then he whispered in his mind:
"They're trying to force me."
"Yes," I said. "They're trying to create chaos around you."
"To make me respond like I used to," he murmured.
A monster.
A tyrant.
A villain who solves every problem with destruction.
Because if he snapped—if he killed someone publicly—then the world would return to its familiar pattern:
Fear him. Hate him. Unite against him.
Fate restored.
Azrael's eyes darkened.
"I will not."
His voice wasn't loud.
But it carried.
The street's shadows trembled.
The air itself felt like it leaned away.
He turned and walked back toward the spire with controlled anger, the kind that wasn't explosive—but disciplined.
The most dangerous kind.
"They're not being subtle anymore," I said.
Azrael didn't answer for several seconds.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet.
Almost tired.
"I spared a kingdom," he said. "I bought bread. I saved a child."
His fingers flexed.
"And the world punishes me for it."
For the first time since I'd met him…
I heard something underneath his control.
Not rage.
Not cruelty.
Something wounded.
Something human.
"Azrael," I said gently, "you're making them afraid."
"Of me?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "Of the fact that you can change."
He stopped walking.
For a moment, he just stood there in the middle of the street, people parting around him like he was a stone in a river.
Then he whispered:
"…If fate wants me to become a monster again…"
He lifted his gaze to the bright sky.
"…it will have to bleed first."
[Warning]
Divine Attention: Rising
Script Correction: Escalating
And for the first time…
I wasn't sure if I was saving him anymore.
Or helping him start a war.