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Rudo was taken under Regto’s protection a hundred solar cycles after receiving the scars on his hands and becoming the sole member of the Surebrec Court. Those marks, which tied him unequivocally to violent events, would have condemned him to absolute isolation had the old angel not chosen to take him under his wing.

From that moment on, the star architect raised him as though he belonged to his own Court. He allowed him to run and fly freely through his workshop; to slip between the machinery of stars under construction; to touch celestial blueprints drawn on silver parchment and leaf through ancient books stacked upon endless shelves. Regto answered his endless questions, no matter how naïve or uncomfortable they might be. Sometimes he even handed him an obsidian compass so he could decide the position of certain satellites, and on more than one occasion entrusted him with the task of tracing lines of light which, once solidified in the firmament, became new constellations.

Of course, the other Courts did not look kindly upon such mercy. In venomous whispers, they said that this young angel, the last created by the Watcher, was marked by tragedy, cursed from the fiery womb that had conceived him. They called him spawn, mistake, living reminder of a divine failure. They swore that in his eyes, red as burnished copper and freshly mined rubies, there did not burn the innocence expected of one his age, but the wild fury of a demon in the making.

Oh… sometimes the oldest angels can be so cruel. Their words were rusted needles wrapped in molasses, injecting putrid secretions into soft flesh, infecting everything down to the marrow. Every venerable mouth, desperate to display absurd measures of wisdom, had no qualms about filling itself with filth if it meant spitting reminders that Rudo’s very existence was an open wound in the holy field, an affront to the balance of perfect creation.

But Regto, stubborn as only the prestige of his Court would allow, never let those voices extinguish his affection for Rudo. Neither the foul, festering wounds, nor his outbursts of rage, nor the cruelty that sometimes wrapped around him like a second skin. Regto was always there. Steady, serene, kind. It was he who changed the bandages on his hands with eternal calm, again and again, as though he would never tire of the same repeated gesture. It was he who groomed his wings with meticulous care, each lost feather collected as if it were precious. It was he who told him ancient stories, tales of when heaven and earth were one, and the Watcher walked barefoot among mortals.

He was the one who took him to witness the collapse of dying galaxies, pointing out how even death could possess a grand beauty. Regto was the one who held him tenderly in silence, without need for words, letting the warmth of his body erase the loneliness. He was the one who gave him the gloves that eased his pain, a physical reminder that he was loved. And he was also the one who comforted him during nights of nightmares, when Rudo’s cries blended with the empty echoes of the firmament.

All that kaleidoscope of memories, bright, warm, tender, now stabbed into him like a hundred daggers in the chest. What had once been a refuge had turned to misery. Longing tore at his soul with violent lashes full of thorns, whose shadows coiled like serpents around his heart, tightening with every breath. Amid that burning pang, the only thing he had left was the certainty that he had lost something irreplaceable.

Because Regto is dead. And Rudo couldn’t even mourn him.

Mourning was denied to him.

The promise to raze heaven and destroy this shitty world had barely left his lips when he was stopped by the celestial soldiers. There was no mercy, no reprieve: he was declared guilty without trial, marked as a traitor to sacred fire and plasma, and in an act of absolute degradation, stripped of the six wings that distinguished him as a Surebrec. That sentence was no ordinary punishment, it was a ritual of annihilation, designed to break not only the body but the spirit as well.

The process was slow, methodical, a ceremonial torture. Each feather was torn out with searing hooks; each tendon ripped in jerks; each bone shattered with maces; the sounds echoed like thunder in a macabre resonance. Pain. Rage. Hatred. There was nothing left inside him, nothing that could survive except that corrosive triad that consumed him whole.

Pain, rage, and hatred, toward heaven, toward the world, toward creation itself.

That visceral contempt burned without restraint, feeding on every indifferent gaze that watched him impassively from the marble celestial stands. It was an uncontrollable fire, knowing no limits or borders, devouring everything in its path, and at its center remained only a dark, bloody, brutal oath: vengeance.

At some point, he no longer knew when, lost between delirium and unconsciousness, they began dragging his mangled body along the paths of cold ivory. The immaculate surface bit into his open skin, causing new spasms of pain that mingled with wet inhalations and exhalations. His gaze, clouded by burning tears, wandered across the open firmament where just hours before he had flown. So near, yet so far. And in that blurred vision, among the trembling lights, his eyes rested on one particular constellation: Cerberus, the three-headed dog.

The memory arrived unbidden.

“Never forget it, Rudo,” Regto had once told him, his deep voice guiding his movements through nothingness, as if the entire cosmos could fit in the palm of a hand. His firm fingers over Rudo’s gloved ones, correcting his position, forcing him to be slow, precise. One false flutter and the newly drawn constellation would turn to cosmic dust, dissolved into nothingness. “The Watcher loves to play dice with the Creation. That means on the divine board, we are all expendable pieces. Isn’t it incredible, don’t you think?” he added, with that ironic, knowing half-smile, his sharp eyes gleaming like obsidian.

Cerberus, suspended high above, does not return his gaze; its jaws are closed, and between its fangs writhes the defeated hero.

Yes. Incredible indeed.

Then they threw him into the pit.

And everything went black.

He felt himself falling. Eternal cycles of sun and moon repeated as he passed through the veil of clouds, suspended in a collapse he could not control. The horizon spun in endless spirals, like a carousel of lava and ice devouring all sense of time. Each turn ripped a piece of life from him; each rotation blurred further the line between up and down, between beginning and end. The air roaring in his ears shattered around him under the howl of a deep, ancient murmur that burst like crystal trumpets, leaving shards of sound embedded on his tongue.

The Watcher.

The noise was not a voice, but a polyphony of them: choirs entangled in a single heartbeat. Echoes of peoples erased under dried seas, of libraries submerged in ash, of toppled towers, of dead languages no one speaks anymore. It was the mirage of a cruel and merciful creator, the one who gives life and takes it away, who condemns and redeems, who raises the board and throws it to hell while still rolling the dice over and over without looking at the result.

A veiled laughter, an eternal game, indifferent to all, except his last child.

Rudo remembers the impact in morbid detail. A prolonged sequence, repeated a thousand times in slow motion: the dull crunch of his legs breaking like dry branches, his spine splintering in a series of grotesque snaps, his arms bending at impossible angles. The watery burst of his organs compressing against his own ribcage, the crushing of his skull, the viscous spill of his brain overflowing like a warm mass onto the filthy ground.

His entire existence reduced to an unrecognizable paste of golden ichor, liquid fire, shards of platinum, and trailing plasma.

An indelible trauma, untouchable.

A death.

So it’s understandable that Rudo takes a long while to process the idea of remaining alive.

In one piece.

As if nothing had happened.

He takes a deep breath; the air fills his lungs.

And then he vomits.

“Alright, let me see if I got this, Rudo.” Enjin walked ahead with steady steps across the unstable terrain, leading the way back to the cave where he had parked the car with Zanka and Riyo inside. His voice was light, though muffled by the oxygen mask. “You were living happily in heaven with your father, this guy named Regto, but you were expelled for a crime you didn’t commit.”

Rudo nodded seriously. The grimy light filtering through the toxic clouds reflected off his golden horns, making them gleam.

“The members of the other Courts decided the best punishment was to rip my wings off.” His voice, also muffled by the borrowed mask, faltered, carrying that childish nervousness that Enjin never quite knows how to handle. “I’m sure they thought I was dead when they threw me into the pit.”

Enjin ignored the bile rising in his throat at the word pit used to refer to what for him had been home. Yes, it’s horrible! And maybe it’s not as pretty as the damn paradise you came from! Do you have a problem with that, genius? He recognizes the feeling as a dull, protective rage, born from pure wounded pride for the place that raised him. It engulfs him, corrodes him. If he were a couple years younger, he’d have already shouted, punched, and kicked.

But he didn’t, because he knew acting like an idiot (again) would get him nowhere. Enjin is the adult here, and walking beside him is a child; and if there’s one thing he’s learned in his twenty-eight years, it’s that children have a terrifying ability to react to the emotions of adults.

The movement of two of the boy’s six wings pulled him out of his mental spiral. Enjin raised an eyebrow, watching the feathers flutter nervously, as if responding to something he couldn’t see. As he’d said: terrifying.

“Right…” he murmured, his tone hard to read, somewhere between disbelief and mockery. “They ripped off your wings?”

Rudo shrugged. “When I woke up from the fall, they were back.”

Enjin nodded. “And tell me… those gloves… is that something everyone up there has, or are you special?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity, recalling the boy’s confrontation with the traffickers.

“My father gave them to me” Rudo growled.

Alright, delicate subject. Better not push. Enjin felt the pressure of a dull ache in his temple. He didn’t know if it was from the polluted air the mask couldn’t fully filter, the thought of having to explain everything to Semiu since he decided to deviate from the original route, or the static that seemed to sneak in with every word from Rudo, as if his voice shattered the air into fragments that lodged in his eardrums.

“But if your wings are fine…” Enjin tilted his head (careful not to worsen the pain), not wanting to sound accusatory. “Why don’t you just fly back to heaven, then?”

The boy furrowed his brow and growled again from deep in his throat, frustration far too big for someone his size. “I can’t. Every time I try to get through those damn clouds, I feel my feathers turn into red-hot needles.”

Enjin whistled through his teeth. “Mmmm… that sounds unpleasant.”

“It is!” Rudo exclaimed with sudden vehemence, his feathers puffing up and crackling the air around him with an electric snap.

Enjin looked over his shoulder and couldn’t help the nervous smile that crossed his face. The scene reminded him of a bristling cat, determined to look dangerous but only managing to awaken the ridiculous urge to scoop it up, carry it in his arms, and tell it in a silly voice to stop trying to bite the world.

“Now that I think about it…” Enjin snapped his fingers. “You’re like a fallen angel”

Rudo looked at him with those enormous red eyes. It was a brief moment, but enough to trigger the most primitive alarms in Enjin’s brain: DANGER. RUN. SAVE YOURSELF. The same visceral instinct he had felt the first time he faced a Trash Beast.

“And you’re a human.”

Rudo’s response was simple, obvious, yet far from innocent. He said it with a calm that didn’t match the tension in his expression. It sounded like a mirror: you’re human, I’m not. A marked line, an impassable wall between them, as evident as the tainted air burning their skin, as undeniable as the tattoos on Enjin’s arms, and the fact that the stars, up there, were nothing more than a children’s tale… right?

“No, no. What I mean…” Enjin waved his hand in a distracted gesture, trying to soften the edge of his words. “Here, in the Ground, there are lots of stories about sky-dwellers who, apparently, went through the same situation as you. And that’s how they call them: fallen angels. Very old stories, you know? The kind that weird people tell around a bottle when they want to scare the stupid and naive.”

As he spoke, the image of a mural in Canvas Town came to mind: winged humanoid figures, painted with rough, messy strokes, falling from a stormy sky. Their bodies twisted grotesquely, halfway between human and beast, always descending, always with hands stretched like claws, trying to grab something they had already lost. He remembered the smell of damp in the alley, the sound of footsteps fading away, the echo of prayers scrawled on the walls. Until then, he had seen it as just another decoration, the whim of some artist. Now, a drop of cold sweat ran down his back.

“Ah… that. I think I know where those stories might have come from.” Rudo’s wings fluttered uncomfortably, kicking up dust and clouds of trash. “My father used to tell me about those who rebelled against the sacred fire hundreds of cycles ago. The Watcher himself banished them, turned them into monsters, and misfortune and death fell upon the members of their Courts.”

Enjin felt the words Watcher, Courts, and Cycles stick to his tongue like fresh molasses. He wanted to ask, to demand explanations, he needed them. But what came out of his mouth was different:

“And what did those monsters look like?”

Rudo narrowed his eyes, as if digging into that memory was painful. His wings drew slightly closer, wrapping around him, as if he wanted to hide in his own plumage.

“Like smoke, sulfur, and ammonia.”

The sentence landed dryly, leaving no room for further questions, with no intention of adding anything more.

Enjin stopped for a moment, just long enough to let Rudo catch up. He pretended to check the terrain, (off in the distance, a few meters away, he finally spotted the car), but in reality, he was trying to hide the strange sensation compressing his chest. It was an embarrassing, direct, numbing panic that dried his throat and left him defenseless.

He felt as though he had stared into the void… and that the void had stared back, winking with one of its thousands of eyes, mocking and patient, as if it had been waiting for him all along.

Shit.

All the stories about the children of heaven were supposed to agree on one thing: that those bastards got what they deserved. They were tales designed so no one would feel compassion for them, so that even children could sleep peacefully thinking the punishment was fair, that there was nothing to mourn. Their lives were unreal, nonexistent, mere narrative tools. Just stories teaching the consequences of killing, stealing, lying, blaspheming, and breaking the laws that kept the world standing. Morals disguised as epics, as rigid and predictable as the sermons of neighborhood priests.

Because angels, and by extension, fallen angels, weren’t supposed to exist.

They had never existed.

Now the line between myth and reality had become blurry, fragile. The monster had come out from under the bed, had broken through the closet doors, had crossed the boundaries of the forest and entered the house, had sat beside him at the dining table, on the stairs, in his life. And the worst part wasn’t that. The worst part was that it didn’t do any of the things the old stories had promised: it didn’t rip faces off, it didn’t drink blood, it didn’t claw flesh, it didn’t wear bones as jewelry.

No. The monster followed him silently. It walked behind him with its head lowered, wings dragging dust and filth, and although it growled, from time to time it opened its mouth to speak like a civilized being, someone you could reason with, telling stories that chipped away at everything Enjin believed to be true and forced him to accept that the world was bigger, more dangerous, and more terrible than he had imagined.

The fallen angel walking beside him was undeniably inhuman: six enormous wings hanging heavy, with white feathers darkening at the tips like his tangled hair; two thick horns, solid and shining gold, jutting out like a provocation; pale skin, marked with black and blue bruises revealing past blows and falls; and an outfit made of torn satin, a luxury that looked stolen from an overly expensive display case.

And the eyes… oh, the eyes. Two burning points, bright as living embers, in which turbulent spirals of rage and pain danced.

An undeniably inhuman creature… with the size, the broken voice, and the face of a child terrified to death.

Perhaps finding a fallen angel and bringing it to the Cleaners’ base wasn’t on Enjin’s annual bingo card. Though, if he got creative, maybe he could expand the trope: bring a potential giver to the Cleaners’ base and, with a little flexibility in the rules, that square could serve to put some order into the mess he had voluntarily gotten himself into. With that, his card would be perfectly close to full.

“You’re a headache,” Enjin confessed, raising an arm and letting it drop onto Rudo’s shoulder. The wings, and their owner, shivered at the sudden contact, and Enjin made a note to be more careful next time. “Come on. There are people you’ll want to meet.”

The image of fallen angels had been constructed from the few stories that survived, passed down orally and preserved in the collective memory of ancient times: beautiful humanoids expelled from heaven, gigantic beings ripped from their divinity and twisted until they became beasts.

In the legends, their wings were black as freshly extracted ink from Hole Town, crow feathers, an omen of ill fate, absorbing every last bit of light. Their skin, dry and rough like that of a sick poisonous snake, was covered in cracks that oozed yellow and red bile. Long, curved goat horns, sharp as daggers, pierced their skulls at the temples. And from their bodies emanated the unmistakable stench of sulfur: heavy, pervasive, clinging and burning the throat, announcing to anyone unfortunate enough to be near, misfortune.

And people, oh, the stupid, gullible people who believed they were real, desperately vied for the privilege of finding a fallen angel; seeing it with their own eyes, tearing chunks of flesh to keep as relics, worshiping its blood, licking its cracked skin, praying to its intestines, and finally reducing it to ashes, as if that brought some sort of justice, some cosmic balance.

Fallen angels were heralds of endings, eternal reminders that even the sacred could rot, wither, err, and be punished.

Because if an angel has fallen from heaven, it means that somewhere up there, someone, in their immaculate supreme judgment, has decided that an unforgivable mistake was made, worthy of expulsion from paradise.

Thoughts like these had been filling Semiu’s head since Enjin had informed her at three o’clock in the afternoon (exactly when the Akuta team should have been returning to base from a mission without distraction) that he had come across what appeared to be a fallen angel in the northern sector of No Man’s Land… Son of a bitch.

“He’s got it all: wings, horns, fangs! And he’s a giver too,” he said, as if that last part was a good thing. “A giver with a lot of potential.”

“Fuck off,” she replied and hung up.

A couple of hours have passed since that call, which means Enjin must be returning to base soon with the rest of the Akuta team… and the thing.

Perfect.

Semiu can handle this. Of course she can.

There’s no reason to panic. Maybe it’s just Enjin playing a bad joke. Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes, of course, the idiot was vague on purpose in his description to get away with it, as always. It’s not something Semiu should worry about. Enjin knows perfectly well that, as soon as he crosses the door with whatever he found, it will be her who has to assess whether it’s dangerous and decide if it stays or not. It’s her job, and she’s done it before.

She thinks of the time he arrived with Riyo, a girl covered in scratches all over her body but smiling as if she’d found treasure. Then she thinks of the time he appeared with Zanka, a young man quite depressed, obsessive with rules, and undeniably dedicated. Whether he admits it or not, Enjin is soft with children. He has that absurd look, that crow-like air that grows fond of the first shiny thing it finds.

Semiu sighs, drumming her fingers on the table. The tapping resonates hollow, monotonous, a way to keep her mind occupied. She tells herself she doesn’t care, that it doesn’t affect her at all that Enjin could arrive any moment with something that’s going to change everyone’s routine: training schedules, group distributions, night watches. A ton of bureaucratic paperwork that she has to complete, double-check, and submit for the boss to put his stupid signature on and finally send it to the Hell Guard.

Yes, she doesn’t care in the slightest.

The sound of a car stopping at the entrance jolted her out of her magazines. The crunch of gravel under the tires made her frown.

Annoyed, she adjusted herself in her chair, straightening up as if the mere act could restore control over the situation. But the gesture was automatic, almost mechanical, because suddenly a bitter, metallic taste filled her mouth, like she had bitten a battery. She swallowed, and the sensation didn’t go away. Her pulse quickened uncontrollably, each beat a dull thud in her temples.

Something is wrong.

The certainty fell on her like a bucket of ice water.

The collar crackled with static, a high-pitched noise that made the hairs on her neck stand on end. Then, amid the buzzing, Shikage’s words filtered through in staccato, distorted by panic and fear.

“A monster! It’s a monster!”

Semiu closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose hard, trying to hold onto the calm slipping through her fingers. She takes a deep breath; the dust-laden air scratches her throat.

“Monsters don’t exist.”

“Then! What is that demon Enjin brought?”

Shikage’s desperation hits her like a gunshot. She imagines him under his blanket, eyes wide, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, fingers trembling.

Ah… so that’s it.

“I’ll handle it, don’t worry.” She pauses briefly, just enough for Shikage to catch some air, and adds: “But stay alert. If anything goes wrong, let everyone know we’re under attack. I don’t want surprises.”

The silence on the other end lasted a second too long, until she heard a breathy assent.

“U-Understood.”

Semiu didn’t wait any longer. She cut the communication with a sharp click that echoed far too loudly in the empty room. Her fingers were still trembling as she ran them through her hair. She realized her palms were sweaty.

“Tsh…” she clicked her tongue irritably at herself, grinding her teeth until she felt the pressure in her jaw. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, but the sound of her own voice did nothing to calm her.

Out of pure instinct, she pretended to get distracted with her magazines, flipping the pages without really looking at the content. Her ears were too alert to what was happening outside. Gradually, voices began to filter in from the hallway, first as a distant murmur and then, with every second, clearer.

She could distinguish Riyo, Zanka, and Enjin, but they weren’t speaking to each other: it was like listening to three different conversations overlaid, all addressed to a single interlocutor who, from what she could tell, said nothing. She stopped flipping the pages. She kept her gaze fixed on the paper, but she wasn’t seeing it. She realized she almost felt pity for whoever, or whatever, was with them. It was an uncomfortable sensation, because she didn’t like feeling compassion before knowing if that person, or thing, deserved it.

“Look, Rudo!” Riyo’s voice rose above the others, carrying that nervous enthusiasm she used when she wanted to break the tension. “This is Semiu, our amazing receptionist.”

Semiu slowly lifted her gaze, a deliberate movement, as if her neck weighed a ton.

First, she saw Riyo rounding the corner, hands buried in her pockets and a wide smile that seemed too casual for the moment. Her steps were light, almost bouncy, as if trying to lighten what was happening. Behind her came Zanka, stoic as ever, his face unreadable, but his knuckles white from gripping the handle of his jinki. Semiu noticed the detail: if Zanka was this tense, things were more serious than Enjin had suggested in his message.

Next came Enjin, his carefree stride almost insulting. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his jinki resting on his shoulder, and that smirk he wore when he felt observed. His eyes, however, did not smile.

And finally…

The air in the room seemed to shift. No, it wasn’t just a feeling, it actually changed. It became dense, thick, as if the temperature had dropped suddenly and the oxygen had become heavier to breathe. Semiu straightened instinctively, as if that would help her defend against what was about to enter.

The creature appeared behind Enjin. Small. Too small to inspire real fear, and yet Semiu’s stomach churned as if she had swallowed something rotten. Its shape was monstrous in the unconventional sense of the word: white wings, golden horns, silk clothing. There was something grotesque in the way its shadow seemed unnaturally elongated on the floor.

Its gaze met Semiu’s for barely a second, enough for a shiver to run down her spine.

“So… that’s the famous fallen angel you told me about, Enjin.” Semiu’s voice came out dryer and sharper than she intended, but she didn’t correct her tone. She crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow, adopting her best professional-boredom expression, as if she were unimpressed. “Nice to meet you, Rudo.”

The boy lifted his head at the sound of his name. He nodded silently, a small, almost timid movement, clinging tightly to Enjin’s arm. He bit his lower lip, revealing a row of teeth too sharp. The six wings fluttered, not threateningly, but nervously, like an involuntary tic. A bit of white fluff drifted from them, floating in the air like soap bubbles before falling to the ground.

Semiu swallowed, feeling the knot in her stomach loosen slightly. She couldn’t help but find something almost… endearing in the image. Like seeing a young Trash Beast chasing its own tail, more curious than dangerous, more disoriented than threatening.

“I admit it,” she finally said, exhaling slowly, her tone half resignation, half acceptance. “I thought you were messing with me.”

“Come on, Semiu, when have I ever done that?” Enjin laughed. With a light pat on Rudo’s shoulder, he gently nudged him forward. “Don’t be afraid, kid. She doesn’t bite.”

But Semiu was sure this angel could.

Rudo, reluctantly, stepped forward obediently.

Semiu, still with her arms crossed, studied him carefully, her eyes scanning every detail and consciously comparing it to the mental image she had formed a couple of hours ago. Although undeniably non-human, Rudo bore no resemblance to the fallen angels described in legends: enormous tar-and-sulfur monsters annoyed with their existence, the world around them, and what had been taken from them.

Instead, this child did not seem uncomfortable in his own skin, at most carrying the air of a lost puppy. And though her instincts screamed that she shouldn’t tempt fate, it was obvious Rudo wasn’t a bad… person? angel? Whatever.

“All right,” she murmured. “This might feel a little weird,” she warned him.

Rudo flinched, his wings fanning out slightly like a black-and-white fan, his horns catching the light from the ceiling lamps, casting golden flashes on the walls. His eyes, two burning pits, first locked on Enjin, seeking approval with a brief but intense gesture, before returning to Semiu.

“It won’t hurt, right?” His voice was low, rough, a growl loaded with threat that reverberated in Semiu’s chest, sending a sharp ache through her temples, as if the vibration had pierced her skull.

“No, it won’t hurt,” she finally replied, forcing herself to stay calm. Her tone was surprisingly patient, even for her. “Just stay still.”

Semiu sighed and, in an automatic movement, adjusted her glasses with the precision of someone who had done the gesture thousands of times. Her fingers found the cold surface of her jinki, activating it. The device responded with a deep hum and a flash of golden light that illuminated the room.

The projection danced in the air before her, and Semiu squinted, adjusting the focus. This was not mere curiosity; it was instinct, second nature. She used to joke that she could see people’s souls, but what she was really doing was something deeper: seeking patterns, potentials, the threads that, if stretched far enough, could break or shape someone.

She saw glimpses of what Rudo could become if pushed to the limit.

Fear. Love. Sadness. Rage.

Frustration. Hatred.

Rage. Curiosity.

Curiosity.

Rage.

HATRED.

And there, at the center of all the emotions dancing in a complex balance, Semiu saw something that froze her blood: a heart of liquid obsidian, dark and dense, spilling over what seemed like a white marble floor, staining it irreversibly. The jinki vibrated faintly in her fingers. Yet she kept watching, unable to look away. The image grew clearer: the golden blood, fiery flesh, and platinum bones that made up Rudo seemed like a luminous cage, beautifully designed, containing embodied horror. A coiled thing, a wild animal, that seemed to beat in sync with his breathing.

A monster, she thought, one that waits patiently, biding its time for the perfect moment to break free and devour the world.

The hum of her jinki stopped. Four pairs of eyes watched her, awaiting her verdict.

“Yes… Rudo can stay.”

Rudo blinked, confused, and loosened his grip on his wings, which had been tense from the start. Enjin smiled, satisfied, and patted his shoulder with that confident air.

They say it’s better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, Semiu thought, and she couldn’t help letting out a tired sigh. If there was anything more dangerous than this boy, it would be losing sight of what he carried inside,

Unlike what the other people in the meeting room thought when Enjin opened the doors and let them catch a brief glimpse of the new member of the Cleaners before slamming them shut, Tomme wasn’t interested in meeting this supposed fallen angel for simplistic reasons such as: tribal mysticism (which, in most cases, was nothing more than a bunch of nonsense wrapped in grandiose words), fetishes disguised as curiosity (often reflecting concerning sexual deviations of those who admitted them shamelessly), or religious fanaticism (that fiery passion which rarely led to anything good and, in the hands of the cleverest, was nothing more than a sophisticated way to manipulate the gullible).

Of course! Being able to interact with a creature like that was like throwing a piece of fresh meat to a flock of crows.

Tomme, like any girl born in the Ground, grew up hearing simple tales of those monsters, which were magnified into fully fledged horror stories, adorned with impossible details and sinister twists. Stories that, as often happens with anomalies that break the tedious pulse of daily life, were repeated to exhaustion, losing consistency with each retelling. And, of course, when one bothered to dig a little deeper, the inaccuracies became clear.

Fascinating as it was, the topic of the “fallen angel” simply had to receive the same treatment given to sightings of trash beasts that didn’t fit established classifications. The lack of reliable information, combined with the intricate issue of the creature’s supposed celestial nature, created a dangerous mix, a fertile ground where assumptions and superstitions could grow like poisonous mushrooms: fast and lethal.

And that was precisely why the wisest course of action was to proceed with caution. Tomme trusted method over myth: observe, record, cross-check, fail, record again… Not letting oneself be swept away by unfounded theories or by the temptation to feed the construction of legends based on poorly defined figures.

Whether it was a true celestial aberration, a disappointment of the holy field, a wound in divine order, or an affront to the sacred, Tomme wanted to know. And the opportunity came a couple of days after the accident in the meeting room.

She, Gris, and Follo were assigned to support the Akuta team on a mission in the southern region.

“His name is Rudo,” said Enjin, giving a gentle pat on one of the boy’s upper wings as if introducing a shy puppy.

Rudo barely moved, uncomfortable with the contact, his wings trembling as if unsure whether to fold or open completely. His eyes glowed a violent shade of red. Tomme felt her throat dry up.

“Does he speak the same language as humans?” she murmured to herself, barely moving her lips as she struggled to maintain a professional expression. Her eyes shifted from the gloves to the horns, from the horns to the black-stained feathers, memorizing every detail of his physiology for future notes in her notebook. It was like studying a rare specimen that could, at any moment, become dangerous.

“This is his first mission,” Enjin continued, crossing his arms and smiling. “And although he isn’t an official member yet, since he still needs the boss’s approval, Semiu believes this is a good opportunity to show him how things work here.”

Rudo briefly looked up, his eyes moving from Enjin to Tomme and then to Gris and Follo, searching for something Tomme couldn’t identify.

“Come on, guys,” Enjin added in a cheerful tone, as if trying to dissipate the tension hanging in the air. “Don’t be fooled by his appearance. Under those feathers, he’s a good kid.”

“All right, I’ll take your word for it.” Gris was the first to break the silence, stepping forward confidently and extending a hand toward the boy. “It’s a shame we’ve taken so long to introduce ourselves properly, Rudo. I’m Gris Rubion.”

The gesture seemed so absurd to Tomme that for a second she thought Gris was joking. But no, there he was, steady, his hand extended as if what he faced weren’t a creature out of a nightmare but a new coworker. She felt the hairs on her arms stand on end, discomfort crawling up her spine like a line of insects. How could Gris just approach that thing so calmly and treat it like any other human being?

Rudo, for his part, hesitated. His wings fluttered slightly, a small, almost imperceptible movement, like a nervous reflex. He glanced at Enjin, who gave a calm nod, before reaching out and reciprocating Gris’s gesture.

The handshake was brief, but judging by Gris’s expression, it wasn’t lacking in firmness.

“Wow, that hurt, kid.” Gris smiled, shaking his hand as if his fingers were still tingling, and then, with a casualness that Tomme found reckless, gave Rudo a gentle pat on the shoulder.

Rudo blinked, surprised by the gesture. His wings opened slightly, releasing white fluff that floated in the air before falling to the ground.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy, almost a growl.

Gris laughed. “No need to apologize. Just give me a heads-up next time so you don’t break my fingers.”

That response made Rudo lower his gaze, and though his expression remained tense, something in his shoulders seemed to relax. Tomme, however, looked away. Her stomach twisted. It was disturbing (even insulting to her sense of reality) that this creature could, even for a second, appear to be a normal child. A child whose shoulder someone could pat, and who would shyly lower his gaze.

“I’m Follo!” shouted the other boy suddenly, bursting into the scene like a bolt of overflowing energy. He stepped forward and stood next to Gris, puffing out his chest with pride. “I hope we get along.”

The sound was so loud and sudden that Rudo flinched. His gloved hands clenched into fists, not out of hostility, but as if he needed something to hold onto. The latent aggression that had wrapped around him like a cloak dissipated instantly, like smoke swept away by the wind.

“Oh…” His voice came out softer, less harsh than before. It was a clumsy imitation of what he should say in a formal introduction, but the effort was evident. “I… I also hope we get along.”

Tomme swallowed. That’s when she felt it: a strange static seeping through Rudo’s words, like a high-pitched buzz lodged at the base of her skull. The sensation made her tense, almost as if someone had inserted an icy needle behind her eyes.

Damn. Now it was her turn.

“Tomme Mima.” She greeted with a slight nod of her head, forcing good humor into her voice as if repeating a protocol she had memorized far too many times. She didn’t want to lag behind, so she stepped forward and forced herself to maintain eye contact with the creature. “I’m not a person of action. My job is to collect data on the beasts we face,” she explained, in a firm tone that contrasted with the cold sweat on her back. To prove it, she pulled a notebook and an ink pencil from one of her pants pockets. The click of the pen echoed too loudly in the silence of the corridor. “Maybe that’s why you don’t see me much on the front lines,” she added, as if that comment could dissolve the knot in her throat.

Rudo only nodded.

Then, what happened next was like a blur in Tomme’s mind. She barely had time to register the transition from standing in the corridor to already being seated in the back of the van. The engine roared beneath her feet, and the smell of hot metal and disinfectant inside the vehicle filled her nose.

Enjin drove, one hand carelessly resting on the wheel while the other adjusted the controls. Gris, seated in the passenger seat, debated with him in a tone half joking, half serious, about which radio station to play, alternating between laughter and frustrated grunts when the signal cut out.

Follo, next to Tomme, leaned toward Zanka from the middle seat of the first row, talking excitedly about something clearly related to jinkis. His hands flew through the air as he described a situation, and Zanka, stoic as always, nodded occasionally, adding one or two details to the conversation.

Riyo, in the narrow space between the trunk and the last row of seats, seemed completely at ease. She whistled softly as she ran her fingers through Rudo’s feathers, adjusting them carefully. No matter how much the boy tried to compress his wings against his body, they still occupied much of the space in the second row, like a living cloak absorbing all the light.

Through the rearview mirror, Tomme knew Rudo wasn’t looking at her. The boy kept his eyes fixed on the other side of the window: mountains of plastic and metal trash piled like rusted ranges, stacked atop one another as far as the eye could see. There was no horizon, only a gray, sickly sea stretching in every direction. Between the piles, slow, thick rivers of organic waste fermented with a viscous murmur, like a sick stomach. The air, saturated with iridescent puddles of chemical byproducts, distorted the light and created warped mirrors that reflected the van in grotesque shapes, almost as if something were watching from beneath the surface.

Rudo didn’t look away from that landscape. His reflection in the glass seemed paler, almost spectral, with wings folded like a cloak and his horns barely glowing in the dim light. And yet, he answered Riyo’s occasional questions in a low, casual voice, as if the scene wasn’t worthy of his attention.

Tomme found herself listening. With every word he spoke, a shiver of guilt ran down her spine. She told herself it wasn’t something to worry about, that she was just doing her job, that curiosity was professional. But something about that exchange made her feel as if she had entered an intimate place where she wasn’t invited, not even remotely.

“Does it hurt if I pluck a feather?” Riyo asked cheekily.

“Depends,” he replied, dryly. “If they’re old or broken, no.”

“Why do the tips change color?” Riyo pressed, leaning slightly closer to him.

“I don’t know.” His tone hardened slightly. “In the sky, they were just white.”

“Can you fly with them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t I seen you do it?”

“Because I haven’t needed to.”

“Mmm…” Riyo brought a hand to her chin, thoughtful. “If you can fly, that means your bones are hollow.”

Rudo said nothing, but he nodded.

Tomme clenched her jaw. She, too, wanted to ask things, many things, perhaps too many: why had they thrown him into the Ground? What did it feel like to fall? How did the others of his kind look? How are angels born? Like their wings, what else about their appearance changes? Did he recognize himself in a mirror? Could angels die? Was Rudo afraid of death? Did Rudo have any relation to the fallen angels mentioned in the myths of the Ground? But the words got stuck in her throat. She felt ridiculous, out of place, cornered by her own fear when everyone around seemed to treat the angel as just a strange child.

For a second, almost unintentionally, Tomme opened her mouth.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, and her own voice startled her. “To fall, I mean.”

Rudo blinked slowly, as if the question had caught him off guard. His reflection in the rearview mirror turned toward her first, but his body remained still, tense, wings pressed against the seat. There was a long silence, too long, so dense that the engine’s hum became deafening, as if everyone in the van was holding their breath, waiting for the answer.

“No,” he finally replied, his voice raspy and broken, as if dragging stones while speaking. “The fall doesn’t hurt. What hurts is the impact. Nothing falls from that height unscathed.”

Tomme remained still, as if the words had struck her chest. She didn’t know whether to interpret it as a dark joke, a warning, or a simple fact. If it was a joke, she didn’t get it. It must have been, because Enjin let out a laugh that filled the van, tilting his head as he muttered something about scaring people not being fun.

“Hey, don’t say things like that on your first day meeting them,” Enjin said teasingly.

Rudo didn’t smile. His eyes drifted back to the window, as if the comment didn’t affect him at all.

Tomme swallowed and lowered her gaze, noticing her eyes were burning. For some reason, the boy’s answer made her feel worse than if he had growled at her or even refused to answer. It was too… honest.

“Don’t mind him,” Riyo said suddenly from the back, her tone a mix of amusement and patience, continuing to tidy Rudo’s messy feathers. “Once you get used to his quirks, he can even seem a little cute.”

“I’m not cute!” growled Rudo, finally reacting, but his protest sounded more childish than threatening.

To prove her point, Riyo grabbed the boy’s face and squeezed it, distorting his cheeks. “Look at these horns, look at this face,” she laughed. “Adorable!”

Rudo hissed, his hair standing on end with static, but he barely made the effort to push her away. With his strength, a single move would have been enough to remove Riyo from him… he could have dislocated her fingers without meaning to. But he didn’t. He simply looked away at the floor, biting his lip, and let her bother him, as if resignation were easier than arguing.

Enjin, still keeping his eyes on the road, smiled seeing the scene reflected in the rearview mirror. “It’s understandable if you’re scared, Tomme,” he said, this time in a softer tone, without mockery. “If you weren’t, I’d be worried about your sense of danger.”

Tomme felt her stomach tighten at the sound of his name.

“But you can relax,” Enjin continued. “Semui gave the thumbs up. Heh, heh… you should have seen Zanka’s face the first time he saw Rudo.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” Zanka protested immediately, sitting upright in his seat, his ears reddening.

“Oh, it totally was,” Riyo chimed in, laughing. “I still remember the scream. I thought he bit you or something.”

“I didn’t scream!”

“Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

The rest of the ride was filled with that lighthearted argument: Zanka trying to reclaim his pride, and Riyo teasing him again and again with exaggerated memories. Even Enjin joined in, adding details that might have been true, or might not, but made everyone laugh except Zanka.

Follo, as if wanting to rescue the atmosphere from the heavy teasing, turned in his seat and, with a shy gesture, started a conversation with Rudo.

“Uh… those gloves you’re wearing. That’s your jinki, right?”

Rudo shifted his gaze from his lap and fixed it on Follo for a moment before nodding silently. That seemed to encourage Follo, who began asking more technical questions, talking about materials and energy. Rudo responded briefly, but he responded, and somehow that small interaction made the air feel a little less heavy.

Tomme, for her part, remained silent, thinking about the notebook tucked in her pants pocket. Her throat was too dry to speak. One part of her -the professional side- the part that needed to record everything, wanted to open the notebook immediately and write: Subject shows self-control. Does not respond with violence to physical or verbal provocation. Exhibits tolerance even in the face of unsolicited physical contact.

But another part -more visceral, more human- just wanted to relax, be part of the conversation, and ignore the implications, terrifying, cruel, morbid, disturbing, and heartbreaking, that Rudo’s damned existence represented… Yes, Tomme definitely needed a drink at the end of the day.

The first time Arkha heard about fallen angels, he was barely five years old. He remembers clearly the feeling of his legs dangling from the too-high chair and the smell of old leather in his father’s office. His father had opened a thick, dark-bound book, the spine cracked with age, a volume so heavy it occupied the entire surface of the desk. Between the pages, the ink seemed to fade in some paragraphs, as if someone had tried to erase it persistently, leaving gaps and incomplete lines.

Near the end, his father showed him one of the few illustrations that remained intact. The image, marked by time but still clear, depicted a humanoid figure unlike the angels in the paintings of the main hall: no golden hair, no perfect feathered wings, and none of the beatific expressions that adorned the artworks. This creature seemed made of shadows and taut tendons, its body hunched, its face framed in a gesture of absolute pain.

The caption, written in a strange language, read: “Me miserable! Which way shall I fly, Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?” His father translated the words for him in a solemn tone that the boy did not fully understand but that left a cold sensation in his stomach. That depiction was terrifying and, at the same time, fascinating: more real than any perfect angel from the paintings.

That image was the first crack in Arkha’s idea of heaven. From then on, when he thought of angels, he didn’t see golden halos but something closer to that figure: wandering, hurt, dangerous.

Decades later, it was past two in the afternoon, and Arkha was having lunch alone in a small family restaurant, in the middle of a business trip. The place was warm, with faded checkered tablecloths and the smell of freshly made soup. Through the window, he could see the watchtowers that were part of the city’s protective wall, imposing even from that distance.

A television hung in the corner of the room, broadcasting Mymo’s gossip program. The volume was so low that the murmur of other patrons nearly drowned it out, yet Arkha still caught the key phrases, the ones that managed to cut through the clatter of cutlery and the tapping of glasses against wooden tables. Each word fell in his mind like a domino, pushing the next one, forming a chain of thoughts that left him frozen, his fork paused midway to his mouth.

“Some witnesses report that a human with wings was seen accompanying the Cleaners.”

“Just like in those children’s tales! Buuuuuh… Angels are falling to the Ground again!”

“I don’t want to scare the listeners, but could this be the announcement of Judgment Day?”

The words repeated in his mind, mingling with echoes of that childhood book, with the illustration that still gave him chills. Arkha felt a knot in his stomach, a contrast between rational disbelief and the unsettling fascination he felt for the impossible.

Other diners were drawn to the topic as well. Amid nervous laughter and credulous whispers, they began to share old tales, family legends, hearsay, and all sorts of chatter that allowed them to be the center of attention for a moment. Their voices intertwined with the clinking of cutlery and the occasional whistle of the restaurant’s ventilation. Some gestured with their hands, others tilted their heads to emphasize the most incredible details. All the noise created a kind of chaotic murmur that enveloped Arkha.

Eventually, Arkha rose from the table, leaving behind his half-eaten soup and the faint smell of reheated oil. His steps echoed on the worn wooden floor as he walked toward the door, weaving between chairs and curious diners who stole glances at him. Outside, the midday air brought a slight relief, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something unusual was about to happen.

He touched the metal clasp of his necklace with trembling fingers. The cold of the metal ran across his skin and reminded him that he could no longer postpone the call: it was time to face the consequences of ignoring Semiu’s persistent attempts to contact him. He knew his secretary wasn’t one to forget quickly, much less someone who would miss the chance to reprimand him.

As expected, Semiu’s anger over his absence for almost three weeks, combined with his useless attempts to apologize, was followed by a tense silence. Arkha couldn’t see her directly, but he imagined her with absolute clarity: standing behind the reception desk, frowning so deeply that concentration wrinkles formed; perfectly manicured nails tapping the desk surface with an imperceptible but persistent rhythm; lips pressed into a line of restraint; exhaling through her nose as if trying not to shout.

After what seemed like a long minute, he asked:

“What does it mean that a human with wings was seen with the Cleaners?”

“Mmm… Mymo should get new informants. That’s old news,” Semiu replied, her tone laced with irritation and disbelief.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time,” he answered, patient enough not to interrupt.

Semiu sighed, tired. “At least tell me you’re coming back to the base soon.”

Arkha didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there tonight.”

“Then… where do I start?” Semiu paused, as if weighing every word. “Alright, a week after you left, I sent the Akuta team on a mission. And that’s where it all began…”

For exactly an hour, Semiu filled him in on every detail: No Man’s Land, what she observed growing inside the boy, the staff’s reactions, and Rudo’s adaptation to his environment. Arkha listened attentively, mentally taking note of every fact, every sentence loaded with warning or concern.

When he finally ended the call, he couldn’t help letting out a deep grunt, a mixture of frustration and fatigue. The world seemed a little more chaotic while he was away, and the magnitude of the situation hit him like a solid weight on his chest.

“Damn… I guess the world is finally starting to move,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Although Semiu had been thorough in emphasizing that Rudo didn’t pose a danger per se, Arkha didn’t let his guard down. That type of creature, while appearing docile, were masters of deception: monsters with protruding fangs, sharp claws, coal-black wings, twisted horns, and an unnatural gleam in their gaze. A caricature of the celestial, as if nature itself had designed a living manual of what a nightmare being should have.

But Semiu said the boy didn’t look like that…

In any case, Arkha took the information cautiously; true horror doesn’t announce itself loudly. It’s silent, piercing the gut so gently that the damage feels like a caress.

A knot of anticipation began forming in his stomach. It wasn’t anxiety or fear; it was something different, warmer, almost electric, a mix of adrenaline and fascination that kept him tense, alert, and strangely alive.

The very idea of imagining Enjin, with his near-zero patience, seeing a being expelled from heaven and deciding that the logical, sensible thing to do was to pick it up and take it to the Cleaners’ base… was hilarious. Absurd. Comical in the most classical sense of the word, so stupid it provoked an almost childish urge to smile in the face of the gravity of the situation.

He knew, because his role as leader of the Cleaners demanded it, that he mustn’t form impossible expectations. What made him different from his predecessors who spent years seeking answers they never found? None of them had the chance to observe a fallen angel in flesh and bone, a being expelled from a higher order, yet capable of interacting with humans without annihilating them. It was a scenario that defied all logic and doctrine, and yet… a man is allowed to dream, right?

The thought drew a short laugh from him, barely a whisper, as he gazed at the horizon from the vehicle driving back to the base. The city behind him grew smaller, gray, and dusty, and yet, for the first time in weeks, he felt that something unexpectedly fascinating was about to happen. A fallen angel. Everything was about to change the rules of the game for everyone.

It was late enough that outside it was dark and cold. The central courtyard of the base was nearly deserted, lit only by a couple of yellowish lamps casting long shadows over the wet concrete. Enjin stood leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed, the lit cigarette glowing in the dim light like a tiny beacon. Though he had no concrete reason to think things might go wrong, the mere fact of not knowing what had been discussed in the chief’s office left a chalky taste in his mouth, a rough discomfort that not even a whole pack of cigarettes could erase.

The cold air bit his skin and mingled with the smoke he exhaled, forming distorted shapes that vanished as soon as they appeared. And what did those monsters look like? Like smoke, sulfur, and ammonia.

He could hear Semiu approaching before seeing her, identifying her by the sound of her heels, steady and confident.

“Looks like you’ve got a stick up your ass,” she said as she reached his side, with that sharp naturalness so typical of her. She leaned against the wall too, crossing her arms, and lifted her gaze to the perpetually overcast sky. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think the chief will ask him to leave. You know?"

Enjin exhaled a long, slow puff of smoke. “That’s not what worries me.”

Semiu raised an eyebrow, turning her head just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Oh?”

“Rudo’s plan is to go back to heaven and destroy everything.”

Semiu blinked, as if she needed a moment to process the sentence. “That sounds…”

“Horrible, yes. But that’s not the point.” Enjin brought the cigarette back to his lips, finishing it off until the ember burned his fingers. He crushed it on the ground and lit another one on automatic impulse. “I don’t want him to be alone while he does it.”

Semiu watched him with an ambiguous expression, half amusement, half disbelief. “Mmm… if you keep talking like that, I might start thinking you’ve grown fond of the little monster.”

“Go to hell,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real anger.

The silence that followed settled between them like a blanket, dense but comforting. After such disastrous days, sharing this moment without needing to fill the air with words was a luxury. The wind whistled through the metal structures of the base, carrying the distant smell of oil and rust.

“Did you ever think angels might exist?” Semiu finally asked, breaking the calm with a low, almost contemplative voice.

“…No,” Enjin replied after a pause, smoke escaping between his teeth.

“Neither did I. I almost would have preferred to keep believing they were a children’s tale.”

Enjin nodded slowly, unable to argue. He ran a hand over his neck, feeling the chill of the night’s moisture on his skin.

“Speaking of children’s tales…” he finally said, with a hint of irony, “Rudo told me the stars were real.” His voice softened as he kept his gaze fixed on the dead sky above them. “He told me Regto, the angel who raised him, was called the architect of stars. That together they designed them, built them, and placed them in the heavens.”

For a second, the image formed in his mind with unexpected clarity: the brat sitting on the luelo amidst Dear Santa and Remlin, wings fluttering impatiently, red eyes ablaze, drawing a series of points on a piece of white paper with a blue pencil, connecting them one by one. Under each point, he wrote, in almost illegible handwriting, the name of the star it represented along with its coordinate number. He said this particular constellation was called Cipactli, the reptile whose severed limbs, after death, created the cardinal points.

“He also told me he mapped many constellations.”

“Constellations?” Semiu repeated, turning her face slightly to look at him with curiosity.

“Yes. According to him, they are groups of stars that form shapes in the night sky. They name them according to how they resemble animals, objects, or historical figures.” Enjin let out a short humorless laugh and shook his head. “If I say it, it sounds silly, but when you hear him talk about it, there’s no doubt it’s real.”

Semiu leaned her head against the wall, gazing at the black sky, not a single light visible. “I imagine it must be beautiful,” she said in a tone that sounded almost wistful.

Enjin sighed, the smoke escaping in a brief cloud that quickly dissolved into the cold air. Never, in all the time he had known Rudo, had he seen him so happy as when he spoke about his life in the sky. “He says human language doesn’t have enough words to describe the beauty of the heavens.”

Semiu tilted her head, thoughtful. “Then it must feel like shit being trapped down here.”

The words lingered between them, heavy, almost accusatory. Enjin chewed them over in silence, because it was something he had thought too many times since that afternoon in No Man’s Land, when he found him covered in golden ichor and trash dust, observing everything as if the world were nothing more than a bad joke.

He took a final drag from his cigarette, crushed it on the ground with a slow gesture, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “And you’d say… You don’t know how many times I’ve found him perched on the roof in the middle of the night. Like he’s looking for something up there. Sometimes, when I accompany him to collect trash, he flies for a while so his wings don’t lose strength. And he always tries to get through those clouds.” He laughed without humor, lowering his gaze. “The result’s the same: he falls, soaked and cursing in that weird language.”

For the first time in the entire conversation, Semiu looked him in the eyes. In them was something mixing compassion, resignation, and a slight reproach that didn’t need words. “You know it’s not your responsibility, right?”

Enjin shrugged, as if that were the only possible answer. “I know. But it’s too late to pretend I don’t care.”

Semiu frowned, crossing her arms. “Do you realize that sounds like you’re-”

“What? His nanny?”

“I was going to say overprotective brother, but choose whichever nickname suits you better.”

“I prefer that to letting him wander alone in a world he doesn’t know.”

“If you start treating him like your personal ward, he won’t develop fully as a giver, and the rest will see him as a problem.”

“Some already think his mere presence here is a problem,” Enjin replied without thinking, the edge in his voice surprising even him. Then he sighed and lowered his tone, as if letting out something that had been pressing on his chest for days. “At least if he’s with me, I know he’s not getting into something worse.”

Semiu watched him in silence, weighing her words, until finally her expression softened. “You’re a damn idiot, you know that?”

“Yes.”

She let out a short, resigned laugh and tapped his arm with the back of her hand. “Don’t burn yourself over something you can’t control, Enjin. Just… keep your eyes open. If that boy breaks, I don’t want him dragging you down with him.”

“Too late.” Enjin narrowed his eyes, studying her. “You know something and you’re not telling me.”

Semiu raised an eyebrow and tilted her head with a half-smile. “I reserve the right to have secrets.”

The silence that followed was long, but not uncomfortable. There was something in the way Semiu held his gaze that told him she wouldn’t give more than she already had. Eventually, Enjin exhaled in a resigned puff and turned around, as if ending the conversation.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the moment.

“Enjin!”

Rudo appeared behind the door, breathing heavily, his six wings spread wide with excitement. It was a spectacle that spoke for itself: something good had just happened. He didn’t smile, seeming physically incapable of doing so fully, but the grimace on his face was so wide it lit up his eyes. For a moment, he looked like any ordinary child, an ordinary child with horns, fangs, and a strange glint in his eyes, running toward his trusted adult after getting an excellent grade at school.

Behind Rudo, Arkha smiled with that satisfied air. He said nothing, but his expression was enough to confirm that the conversation with Rudo had been more fruitful than he had originally planned.

Enjin blinked, still processing the mix of joy and concern the scene provoked. He looked at Rudo, who couldn’t stop flapping his wings. The air around him felt charged with a light static, making the hairs on Enjin’s arms stand on end. Not in an uncomfortable or frightening way; on the contrary, there was something comforting in that energy.

“I guess that means you’re a real Cleaner now,” Enjin finally said, trying to sound neutral, though his voice came out warmer than expected. A slight smile escaped him despite his effort.

Rudo nodded so forcefully that a couple of feathers fell to the ground, swirling gently in the air before touching the floor. Enjin watched the scene and, for a second, felt the urge to offer to help groom his wings that night.

Finally, Enjin approached and ran a hand through his horns. “Come on, Rudo,” he stroked his hair with a gesture as natural as breathing. “There’s a surprise party inside with your name on it. Best get there before they eat all the sweets.”

For a moment, Rudo’s shoulders relaxed and his wings folded slightly, as if the touch had grounded him in the present. A quiet, growl-like sound formed in his throat before he nodded again and moved closer to Enjin.

Enjin ignored the glance shared by the chief and Semiu at the door. He didn’t care if they saw him as sentimental or thought he was getting too involved. Now the only thing that mattered was his boy, who for the first time seemed willing to forget the fall and start enjoying being in the pit.