Jude snapped his mouth shut. The sound echoed like a gavel strike.
He looked up at Seraphile. The sheer scale of her was dizzying—not just the height, but the pressure she exerted on the room. The air felt heavier, charged with static.
She flipped open a golden folder on her lap. It looked disturbingly like a standard HR personnel file, just glowier.
"Jude Miller," she read, finger tracing down the page. Her nail was painted iridescent gold. "Born in Allentown. C-section. Colic baby. Cried for six months straight."
She looked down at him.
"A portent of things to come, apparently."
Jude shifted, sneakers squeaking on the marble. "Is this the part where my life flashes before my eyes? Because I really don't need the highlights. It's mostly just me staring at a ceiling fan."
"Mediocre grades," Seraphile continued, ignoring him. "Failed driving test twice. Quit varsity baseball sophomore year. Chronic anxiety. A distinct lack of ambition. And finally… death by blunt force trauma and a 9mm round to the frontal lobe."
She closed the folder. The sound was like thunder.
"A statistical anomaly." She leaned forward, massive wings flaring slightly, stirring a breeze that smelled of ozone. "You spent twenty-one years trying to be invisible, Jude. You avoided conflict like it was a survival instinct. Yet in your final moments, facing two armed men with zero tactical advantage, you punched one in the face."
Her golden eyes narrowed.
"Why?"
"I don't know," Jude said. He looked at his hands. Clean now. No blood, no grime. "I just… I was tired."
"Tired?"
"Tired of watching." The words came out before he could stop them. "Tired of waiting for the heroes on the ads to show up. They weren't coming."
"No," Seraphile said softly. "They weren't."
She stood. The movement was fluid, like water flowing uphill. She descended the marble steps, shrinking as she walked until she was only a head taller than him. She stopped three feet away.
"When you were five years old," Seraphile said, "you wore a towel around your neck for three weeks straight. You told your mother your name was 'Captain Justice.'"
Jude's face burned. "I was five. Every kid wants to be a hero."
"You didn't just want it. You believed it." She studied him. "Before the world ground you down. Before you realized that in your era, 'heroism' is just a marketing term for a sneaker deal."
She waved a hand. The air between them shimmered, forming a window into the mortal world.
Jude saw the gas station. His body, lying on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. The robbers emptying the register while the clerk bled on the tile.
"The owner…" Jude whispered.
"They spared him," Seraphile said. "Because you didn't wait. Because for three seconds, you stopped being a depressed college student and became the only thing that matters in this universe: an intervention."
The image faded.
"Why am I here?" Jude asked. "Bob said there's a wait. Why did I skip the line?"
"Because you didn't want to be in the line, did you?" Her voice lost its corporate edge, dropping into something darker. "You wanted out. You wanted the void."
Jude didn't answer. He didn't have to.
She knows, he thought. She knows you weren't trying to be brave. You were trying to be done.
"We have a problem, Jude," Seraphile said, turning and walking back toward the throne. "A structural defect in the architecture of creation."
"That doesn't sound like my problem," Jude muttered.
"Have you ever heard of the Heavenly War?"
"I went to Catholic school for six years. Something about Lucifer getting evicted."
"The simplified version. The human version." Seraphile's voice was dry. "Before your Christ walked the earth, there was a war. A total war. Heaven versus Hell. We won, but it was Pyrrhic. The walls between dimensions cracked. Earth was nearly glassed."
She gestured to the stained glass windows above.
"We sealed the demons away. Locked the doors. But locks rust. Seals degrade."
She turned to face him.
"Throughout history, there have been leaks. Cracks in the foundation. When that happens, we cannot send armies. We cannot send Archangels. The energy displacement would destroy your planet. So we send agents. We take human souls—souls with potential—and we send them back."
"Earth Angels," Jude said, remembering Bob's words.
"Contractors," Seraphile corrected. "The American Civil War. The World Wars. The Cold War. Every time humanity stood on the brink of annihilation, it wasn't just luck that saved you. It was us. Operating in the shadows."
She paused.
"But now, the leaks are worse than they've been in two thousand years. Hell is organizing. They're preparing a breach."
"So let the heroes handle it," Jude said, throwing his hands up. "That's what they're for, right? Ironclad? Titan? The P.I.T. taskforce?"
Seraphile laughed. Cold and sharp.
"The heroes?" She scoffed. "They're products, Jude. Biological weapons owned by venture capitalists. Trained to fight bank robbers and pose for Instagram. They are not trained to fight a Principality of Hell. If a Greater Demon walked into Philadelphia tomorrow, Ironclad would try to sue it for copyright infringement before being turned into a stain on the pavement."
She stepped closer, her shadow engulfing him.
"The government knows. The P.I.T. knows. They're covering it up because panic is bad for the economy. They're putting band-aids on a bullet hole. They cannot stop what's coming."
She extended her hand toward him. Her palm glowed with soft, terrifying golden light.
"We need an operative on the ground. Someone who isn't on the payroll of a shoe company or streaming service or the United States Government. Someone who is already dead, so they have nothing left to lose."
She looked him in the eye.
"I am offering you a job, Jude Miller. Return to Earth. Wield the weapons of Heaven. Hunt the things that go bump in the night."
Jude looked at her hand. The golden light.
He thought about the cold floor of the gas station. The peace of the silence right before the ringing started. His dad's texts. His failing grades. The crushing weight of simply existing.
This is it, the voice whispered. Another cage. A shinier one, with better lighting, but still a cage. You'll trade the friend group for a boss. Trade the errands for missions. Trade one leash for another.
But at least this cage has a purpose.
He looked up at the goddess.
"No," Jude said.
The silence that followed could have crushed a tank.
Seraphile blinked. "Excuse me?"
"No." His voice shook but held. "I don't want a job. I don't want to save the world. I just died. I finally got out. Why would I go back?"
Because you're a coward, the voice said. Because you don't actually want freedom. You want permission to stop existing. And she's not offering that.
Seraphile didn't recoil. She didn't get angry.
She moved.
In a blur too fast to track, she bent down, bringing her face inches from his. Up close, her eyes were like staring into a dying star—burning, ancient, terrifyingly intelligent.
Jude flinched, his back hitting the marble steps. He wanted to scramble away, but the weight of her presence pinned him.
"Look at you," Seraphile whispered. Her voice vibrated in the marrow of his bones. "Trembling. Terrified. You said you want to die? You said you want to be finished?"
She reached out, a massive finger tilting his chin up, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"You are a liar, Jude Miller. You don't want to die. You just want the pain to stop being pointless."
The air grew heavy, pressing down like deep water.
"I could have chosen a soldier," she said, voice rising, echoing off the endless ceiling. "I could have picked a martyr, or a saint, or one of those plastic idols you worship on your billboards. They would have begged for this power. They would have used it for glory. But they are full. Full of ego. Full of fear. Full of the world's noise."
She leaned closer.
"But you… you are empty. You have hollowed yourself out with twenty-one years of silence. You walked through your life like a ghost, apologizing for the space you occupied, terrified that if you screamed, no one would listen."
She smiled. Sharp and dangerous.
"I am not asking you to be a hero, Jude. I am offering you a voice that will shake the pillars of Hell itself. So do not dare sit there and tell me you prefer the silence."
The words hung in the air, vibrating with power.
Jude stared at her. He tried to look away but couldn't. The truth—the raw, ugly truth—clawed at his throat.
His life flashed again. Not the events, but the feelings. The hours staring at the ceiling fan. The way he shrank when Greta yelled at him. The pretzels for a girl who wouldn't look him in the eye. The crushing, suffocating weight of being nothing.
She's right, he thought. You don't want to be dead. You just want to matter.
And here's someone offering you that. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line.
Another contract. Another cage. But this one comes with wings.
A single tear leaked out, tracking through the stubble on his cheek.
He let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-sob.
"Fine," Jude whispered. He opened his eyes, the fatalism replaced by something darker. Something desperate. "Fine. I'll do it."
Seraphile pulled back, towering over him once more. The terrifying intensity vanished, replaced by cool, satisfied professionalism.
"Excellent choice."
She reached into empty air. Light coalesced in her grip, weaving strands of gold and white fire until they solidified into a weapon.
A bow. But not wood and string—two recurved blades of celestial gold connected by a grip of white leather. It hummed with menacing energy.
She held it out.
Jude reached for it. The moment his fingers brushed the grip, agony ripped through him.
Not the pain of a bullet. The pain of being rewritten.
White fire surged up his arms, burning away the hoodie, the jeans, the skin. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by light. He felt his shoulder blades crack and reknit, bones expanding, muscles tearing and reforming.
Snap. Crunch. WHOOSH.
Two white-feathered wings burst from his back, shredding the remains of his sweatshirt. A laurel of golden light ignited above his head, casting a halo on the marble.
He gasped, falling to his knees, clutching the bow. He felt charged. Like he'd been plugged into a reactor.
Wings, he thought through the haze of pain. They gave me wings.
But wings don't mean you're free. They just mean the cage is bigger.
"The contract is signed," Seraphile said. Her voice sounded distant as the world blurred at the edges. "You return to the moment you left. The breach must be sealed."
"Wait," Jude gasped, looking at his glowing hands. "What do I do? How do I use this?"
Seraphile sat back on her throne, crossing her legs.
"Finish the job, Jude. We'll be in touch."
She snapped her fingers.
BANG.
The ringing returned instantly. The smell of floor wax and ozone was replaced by stale corn chips and gunpowder.
Jude was back on the floor of the gas station.
But he wasn't dead.
The bullet that had killed him was gone. The blood was gone.
He was kneeling among scattered candy bars, the golden bow gripped in his left hand. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, reflecting off the ethereal white wings that were currently knocking over a display of beef jerky.
The two robbers stood exactly where they'd been. Smoke still drifted from the barrel of the 9mm.
They were staring at the floor where Jude's corpse should have been. Instead, they were staring at a glowing, winged entity slowly rising to its feet.
"What the fuck…" the gunman whispered, voice cracking. He stumbled back. "What is that? Is that a hologram?"
The second robber dropped his bag of cash. "Bro, shoot it! Shoot the fucking ghost!"
Jude stood to his full height. He felt the wings twitch—an extension of his spine, responding to his thoughts. He felt the hum of the bow in his grip.
This is real, he thought. You're actually doing this.
Welcome to the new cage. Hope you survive the orientation.
He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. The emptiness was gone, filled with something cold and divine.
Jude split the bow into two blades—click-clack—dual-wielding them like short swords.
He moved.
He was a blur of white and gold. He closed the distance in a heartbeat.
The gunman fired. Bang! Bang!
Jude didn't dodge. He swatted the bullets out of the air with the flat of the blade. Ping. Ping.
"What the—" the gunman gasped.
Jude slashed upward. The blade didn't cut skin—it cut force. A wave of kinetic energy slammed into the gunman's chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward. He smashed into the Slurpee machine, shattering plastic and disappearing under a flood of blue raspberry.
The second robber scrambled for the door, screaming.
Jude combined the blades back into a bow. He pulled the string. No arrow, but a shaft of pure blue light materialized between his fingers.
He let it fly.
THWIP.
The energy arrow shrieked through the air and struck the doorframe an inch from the robber's nose, exploding in a burst of concussive force.
The robber was blown backward, tumbling over the lottery counter and landing in a heap of scratch-off tickets.
Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of the ruined Slurpee machine.
Jude lowered the bow. His chest was heaving—not from exhaustion, but from the rush. The adrenaline was unlike anything he'd ever felt. Pure. Intoxicating.
So this is what it feels like, he thought. To matter.
"Holy…"
Jude turned.
The clerk was peeking over the counter. His face was bloody, glasses crooked. He stared at Jude—at the wings, the halo, the glowing weapon—with wide, trembling eyes.
"Angel?" the old man whispered. "Are you an angel?"
Jude looked at him. He thought about the fear he'd felt five minutes ago. About Seraphile's words. A voice that will shake the pillars.
He didn't have words. He just offered a small, tired smile.
Wooooop-Wooooop.
Sirens. Close.
Jude's head snapped toward the window. Blue and red lights flashing against the storefront. The police.
Can't be here. Not like this.
He looked at the clerk one last time, gave a sharp nod, then looked up.
He bent his knees and launched.
CRASH.
He smashed through the drop ceiling, through insulation, and punched a hole straight through the roof.
Debris rained down on the candy aisle as Jude Miller shot into the cold Philadelphia night, a streak of gold vanishing into the clouds.
The wind was sharp at three hundred feet.
Jude hovered above the city, wings beating in a rhythm he didn't have to think about. Below him, Philadelphia sprawled in a grid of orange streetlights and dark rooftops. The sirens at the gas station were tiny now, red and blue dots swarming like angry fireflies.
He looked at his hands. They were still glowing faintly, golden light pulsing beneath the skin like a second heartbeat.
You're an angel now, he thought. Or something like one. You have wings and a magic bow and a boss who could crush you with a thought.
Congratulations. You traded one shitty job for another.
But even as the cynicism surfaced, he couldn't deny the feeling in his chest. The lightness. The clarity.
For the first time in years, the ceiling fan wasn't spinning in his head. The voice that had whispered about exit signs was quiet.
Because you have a purpose now, a different voice said. Even if it's not your own.
He thought about Seraphile's offer. The contract he'd signed without reading the fine print. The job he'd accepted because the alternative was an eternity in a waiting room.
You're not free, he reminded himself. You're employed. There's a difference.
But as he floated above his city, wings spread against the stars, he couldn't help wondering if maybe—just maybe—this cage had a better view.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Somehow, impossibly, his phone had survived the death, the resurrection, and the ceiling-smashing exit. He pulled it out.
NATALIA: where r u?? did u get the snacks??
Jude stared at the screen. He laughed—a short, sharp sound that was swallowed by the wind.
Same old Natalia. Same old cage.
He pocketed the phone without responding and turned his face toward the moon.
Tomorrow, he'd have to figure out how to hide the wings. How to explain the missing hours. How to be Jude Miller, failing college student, while also being… whatever he was now.
But tonight, just for a few more minutes, he let himself fly.
The city glittered below him. Somewhere down there, a clerk was telling cops about an angel. Somewhere down there, his friends were getting drunk without him. Somewhere down there, his dad was composing another disappointed text.
And up here, three hundred feet above all of it, Jude Miller was finally, impossibly, beautifully alone.
Not free, the voice reminded him. But closer than you've ever been.
He banked left, caught an updraft, and soared toward the campus.
The first day of the rest of his death had officially begun.