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Chapter Text

With feline grace, Aventurine settled back into the VIP lounge’s leather armchair. A half-empty glass of twelve-year-old single malt whiskey swirled in his right hand, while his left instinctively rolled a poker chip between his fingers. It was an old habit that both steadied his nerves and sold the image of a gambler.

The surrounding noise was a familiar symphony: the muffled cheers and groans of winners and losers from the main hall, layered with the clinking of glasses and the metallic shuffle of chips. The low murmur of players discussing their bets wove into a tapestry of sound that only someone who lived in this world of high stakes could truly appreciate. For most, the atmosphere was intoxicating. For Aventurine, it was almost tranquil in its predictability.

He wasn't supposed to be here tonight. At nine AM tomorrow, he had a presentation for the board of directors in another attempt to convince a tank of corporate sharks that his insane plan would make them millions. As one of the top managers in the IPC's Strategic Investment Department, he was considered a priceless asset… at least, that’s what the quarterly reports said. The reality was much simpler: they tolerated him only because Aventurine possessed a near-mystical ability to turn absolute crap into pure gold.

Impossible deals, dead-end negotiations, partners with reputations fouler than the devil’s – he took on every lost cause and invariably emerged victorious. Whispers followed him down the corporate corridors: some attributed his success to phenomenal luck, others hinted at supernatural forces, while a few suspected mob ties. Aventurine just smiled cryptically, letting the rumors multiply like weeds, never confirming or denying a single one.

He caught the chip between his fingers, his gaze lazily sweeping over the table to assess the night’s haul. A formidable mountain of chips already sat in the center, worth enough to buy a decent downtown apartment. They gleamed under the lamplight like a dragon's hoard, seductive and promising.

But the players who had dared to challenge him tonight were a cast of clichés.

Directly opposite sat a man in a three-piece suit, his mustache waxed into a cartoonish villain’s curl. He chewed on a cigar, as his beady eyes were darting across the table, searching for an escape from his imminent ruin. To his left, was a woman, so lavishly adorned with jewels that she shimmered with every color of the rainbow; her tense smile and the way she fiddled with a diamond necklace betrayed her anxiety. To his right sat an old man radiating an overconfidence, as if he already knew he would walk away the victor. A young woman in a scandalously short scarlet dress was perched on his lap, periodically leaning in to whisper something in his ear that only made his grin widen.

The scene was so painfully mundane, it was almost enough to make him yawn. Aventurine had seen hundreds of nights like this and thousands of players like them. They were all identical in their greed, fear, and desperate hope to outplay fate.

But tonight, something was wrong.

Behind the players, something was… off. A barely-there black smoke seemed to coil in the air. It twisted and writhed, occasionally taking on fleeting shapes: a mouth twisting into a grin, eyes that followed his every move. The smoke seemed to have a life of its own. The shadows themselves stirred, reaching for the players, wrapping around them like invisible serpents.

​And no one saw it but him.

​A chill ran down his spine, but he crushed the shiver with sheer willpower. The whiskey burned a path down his throat, grounding him. Aventurine took off his rose-tinted glasses and shook his head, trying to dispel the vision. But the strange smoke didn't fully vanish. At the same time, the old man seemed to take the gesture as a sign of defeat and flashed a predatory smile, revealing a row of gold crowns.

"Folding, boy?" he rasped. "A wise decision."

Aventurine slowly lifted his gaze, a devilish light dancing in his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, a single chip flew into the center of the table with a sharp click. The rest followed in a smooth, cascading wave... a fortune tossed in with the nonchalance of a man sparing change for a beggar.

"All in," he announced, not even glancing at his cards. He simply propped his cheek on his hand and smiled.

For a beat, a ringing silence fell over the table. The bejeweled woman dropped her glass, and it shattered against the marble floor with a musical chime. The man with the mustache choked on his cigar smoke. The old man pushed his companion away and leaned forward, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"You're bluffing," he hissed.

"Perhaps," Aventurine shrugged. "There’s only one way to find out."

The shadows behind the players began to churn, swirling faster, their forms growing more distinct. Aventurine could now almost see faces within them: distorted and grotesque masks of greed, fear, and desperation.

Under the table, he clenched his left hand into a fist so tight that his nails dug into his palm. But on his face remained that same lazy, challenging smile. A mask he had worn for so long he had almost forgotten his own face beneath it.

The die has been cast. The cards were on the table. Aventurine raised his glass in a silent toast to an unseen audience.

"Well, gentlemen," his voice was as smooth as an invitation to an execution, "It's all or nothing."

***

The corridors of Heaven gleamed with a blinding light that would have driven any mortal to madness, yet for angels it was soft, warm and enveloping, offering fleeting moments of peace and harmony. Somewhere in the distance, divine hymns drifted through the air, echoing from the white marble walls and floors in a chorus of serenity. Stained-glass frescos scattered the light into hues of lilies and gold, painting the hallways in sacred colors.

But Sunday noticed none of it.

His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in turmoil. He walked with hurried steps, clutching a letter to his chest, its paper already creased and worn from how often his fingers had worried at it along the way. His mind was a chaos of fear, half-formed plans, and fragments of doubt colliding without order. The small wings by his ears bristled, feathers disheveled, betraying the storm within him. Normally, Sunday would have stopped, taken a breath, composed himself. But not now. There was no time.

At last, he reached the carved white doors, their surface etched with delicate designs. He raised his gloved hand to knock, only for the door to swing open on its own, as though it had been waiting for him. Slowly, he stepped inside.

It was the worst possible moment.

The usually empty seats in the circular hall were now occupied by the heads of the Family – the very same who now unofficially ruled Heaven. He had only a moment to register the familiar faces before all eyes turned to him. Old Oti Alfalfa, a cunning dwarf with shrewd eyes, was slouched in his chair, lazily stroking his long beard as if the proceedings barely concerned him. Beside him sat Lady Maeven Ellis of the Iris family, the very picture of refined elegance. She adjusted her perfectly coiffed hair, her curious gaze flicking toward the intruder. But it was Gopher Wood who commanded the room. Standing in the center of the hall, the High Archistrategos of Heavenly Order was as imposing as ever. His very presence thrummed like a taut string, filling the room with tension. 

Sunday realized he had interrupted their discussion. Gopher turned to him slowly, his face placid, his lips curved into a calm, fatherly smile. But Sunday knew him too well to be deceived. He caught the almost imperceptible twitch of the two black wings behind Gopher’s ears, as a telltale sign of irritation that others might miss, but not him.

“I am listening, child.”

The voice was calm, measured. Yet the air itself seemed to thicken at his words, heavy and oppressive like the stillness before a storm. Any other angel would have fallen on their knees before High Archistrategos, but Sunday only tightened his grip on the letter.

​"Father," he began, then faltered. A lump in his throat made it hard to speak, but he forced himself to continue. "I have come to discuss your orders."

A tense silence fell upon the hall, broken only by the faint rustle of feathers. Every gaze: curious, judgmental or mocking, now was fixed on him. Sunday straightened his back. Retreat was not an option.

​"I do not agree with the decision to send Robin on this mission."

My sister. The words almost escaped his lips, but he swallowed them. Here, in this hall, any emotional attachment was a weakness to be used against you.

​"Ah, youth!" Oti Alfalfa leaned back, his laugh like the grating of rusty hinges. "That blessed time when fledglings fancy themselves eagles. I had thought, dear Gopher, that your tutelage had cured the boy of such... outbursts."

Lady Maeven folded her hands neatly, her halo flaring gold in restrained indignation. 

“You are being disrespectful, boy. Surely you know it is not within your power to challenge the Archistrategos. We have enough problems without being distracted by youthful tantrums."

The words struck like slaps, but Sunday held his ground. His face remained a calm mask, one he had learned to wear since childhood. Only the hand behind his back betrayed him; his fingers were clenching the letter so tightly his knuckles had turned white, the paper threatening to tear completely.

"This is not a tantrum," his voice was steadier than he expected, though the wings behind his ears trembled traitorously. "Robin has only just returned from her previous assignment. She is exhausted. If she remains in the mortal realm for too long..." He paused, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air. "You all know how that will end."

Gopher, who had been listening intently, finally spoke. His tone was calm, but unyielding. 

​"Robin is the ideal candidate," his tone brooked no argument. "She possesses unique experience in dealing with the mortal world. Her knowledge is irreplaceable. This mission is… delicate. We cannot entrust it to an inexperienced angel."

​"But it's too dangerous!" Sunday raised his voice without realizing it. "Shadows are flocking to the city, and Robin is not invincible! She just got back! Are there truly no other angels who could handle this?"

​Oti chuckled, and Sunday had to fight the urge to scowl.

​"The mortal world isn't a place for a leisurely stroll, fledgling. Your little sister understands that better than most. But if you're so worried..." Oti's eyes glinted with amusement. "Perhaps you’d like to take her place?"

​Maeven looked ready to add her own sharp remark, but Gopher raised a hand, silencing them.

​"Enough," he said firmly. "I understand your concern, Sunday. But the Family’s decisions are made for the sake of Order, not convenience. This mission is vital, and Robin will handle it better than anyone. I expect you to understand and accept my choice."

Sunday wanted to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He felt a kaleidoscope of emotions he was so used to suppressing. Gopher had already made his decision, that much was clear. But to accept it felt like betraying Robin, and everything it meant to be her brother. He had to do something. Anything.

​Oti Alfalfa’s mocking words echoed in his head:

 Perhaps you’d like to take her place?

 That was it. That was the answer.

​"Now, leave us, child," Gopher began, with the same calm finality that always accompanied his commands.

​"Let me go."

​The words burst out before his mind could stop them. The silence that followed was deafening.

​"Let me take her place," Sunday repeated, his voice stronger this time.

​Oti Alfalfa, clearly intrigued, smirked and leaned forward, his small eyes shining with a gambler's thrill. Maeven, by contrast, just sniffed with disdain, making it clear she considered the entire conversation a waste of her precious time. Master Gopher’s expression didn't change, as if Sunday’s words hadn't surprised him in the slightest.

​"Do you have any idea what you are asking?" Despite his composure, a dangerous edge entered Master's voice.

​"I do," Sunday met his gaze without flinching. "I am prepared to take on this mission. I am an angel, a part of the Family. Robin has spent too much time on Earth these past few months. Another mission could be her last. She needs to stay and recover."

​"You?" Oti scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "You know nothing of the mortal world. What could you possibly accomplish down there, fledgling?"

​"I will manage," Sunday interrupted, trying to rein in his rising irritation. "I may have less experience, but I am not ignorant. I have studied the theory, and I am ready to apply everything I know."

​"And your duties here?" Maeven pressed. "Who will perform your work while you are wandering through the mortal realm?"

​"Robin," the answer was instant. "She is more than capable."

​"How touching," Maeven said, her eyes flashing. "Brotherly love. But nobility is no substitute for experience. If you fail, you will doom not only yourself but the mission as well."

​"Then it will be my failure," Sunday did not waver. "My responsibility."

​"He's not wrong," Gopher finally said, cutting through the bickering. His voice was calm, but it carried an implicit threat. "If I agree, you must understand that your time will be short. You know the consequences for an angel who lingers in the mortal world. You will either complete this mission swiftly, or you will fall with it. And if that happens, I will personally tear the wings from your back and cast you into the Abyss. Is that clear?"

​Sunday nodded, his gaze unwavering.

​"Yes, Master."

​Another long pause. Then, Gopher gave a single, decisive nod. All paths of retreat were now cut off.

​"So be it. The mission is yours. Try not to disgrace my name with your inevitable failure."

​"Thank you for your faith," Sunday said, offering a shallow bow.

​He turned and left the hall with a brisk stride, not allowing himself to run, though every instinct screamed at him to flee. Only when the massive doors sealed shut behind him did he finally lean against the wall and exhale.

​The letter in his hand had been torn completely in two. He stared down at the scraps, at Robin’s name written in Gopher’s perfect script, and let out a shuddering breath.

​She would be safe. Nothing else mattered.

***

​Aventurine laid his cards on the table slowly, one by one, drawing out the moment of his triumph. His expression remained indifferent, but a devilish glint danced in his eyes, and the usual smirk played on his lips.

​"Royal flush," he announced, as if commenting on the weather.

​Gasps went around the table. A wave of shock and disappointment washed over the players' faces. The only sound that broke the silence was the metallic clatter of chips being pushed toward Aventurine. He raked in his winnings with the air of a man collecting loose change from a counter, not deigning to give any of the losers so much as a passing glance.

​"Damn it to hell!" The old man, his face flushed and hands trembling, threw his cards down so hard they scattered across the table. A vein pulsed on his temple in time with frantic heartbeat. "That's not luck, that's goddamn sorcery!"

​The girl in the short red dress slid off the old man’s lap with feline grace. After shooting him a contemptuous sniff, she turned to Aventurine, her eyes scanning him from head to toe like a merchant assessing the value of a prize. Aventurine simply ignored her.

​Leaning forward slightly, he finished his whiskey, setting the glass down on the table with a dull thud. With a fluid motion, he put on his glasses, their lenses glinting in the lamplight. Then he rose, casually slinging the jacket that had been draped over his chair onto his shoulder. He swept his gaze over the room and, with a faint smirk, said:

​"Well, 'friends' , it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. But I’m afraid it’s time for me to go."

​The woman dripping in diamonds merely gave a disdainful huff and turned up her powdered nose, refusing to look at him. The man with the mustache ground his teeth, extinguishing his cigar directly on the edge of the table, leaving a scorched mark.

​The old man shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor. His finger, thick as a sausage, trembled as he pointed it at Aventurine.

​"I DEMAND a rematch!" he sputtered, spittle flying from his lips. "You can't just walk away!"

​Aventurine paused and turned slowly, looking the old man over in the way one might look at a particularly stupid dog barking at a passing train. Then, he pulled a single, low-denomination chip from his pocket. He tossed it in the air, deftly caught it, rolled  between his fingers, and then flicked carelessly onto the table. The chip skittered across the felt, coming to a perfect stop in the center.

​"For your ride home," Aventurine smiled sweetly. "The last train leaves in half an hour. Don't be late."

​The reaction was immediate. The mustachioed man's face turned crimson, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles went white. The old man choked on his own fury, his face turning an unhealthy shade of purple. The woman in diamonds finally looked up, her eyes promising him a slow and agonizing death.

​Out of the corner of his eye, Aventurine saw the black smoke he’d noticed earlier reappear. This time it coiled thickly around the players, seeming to feed on their rage and indignation. The temperature in the room suddenly felt as if it had dropped several degrees. Aventurine felt a chill creep under his skin but suppressed the shiver, ignoring the strange hallucination. He turned and headed for the exit, his steps even and unhurried, despite the uproar behind him: the shouts and fury of those who couldn't accept defeat.

​He had almost reached the door when the girl in red materialized in front of him. She smiled and gave him a playful wink, then slowly traced a line down his chest with two fingers. Leaning in until her lips were right beside his ear, she whispered in a low, seductive voice:

​"Leaving so soon?" Her voice was honeyed and sweet. "Lady Luck is on your side tonight. It would be… unwise to let her go. Play one more round, and then…" she pressed closer, her sickeningly sweet perfume enters the nose, "I can make the rest of your night unforgettable."

​Aventurine let out a short, barking laugh. The laugh of a man who had heard this song a thousand times. He had no intention of returning to the table; the game was over, and he always knew when to walk away. But, at the same time, he knew her type. The mannerisms, the voice, the light touches… it was all part of a well-rehearsed performance. And he happened to be an expert at games like this.

​Aventurine gave her an appraising look, his gaze lingering on the soft lines of her face, framed by chestnut hair, her half-lidded dark eyes, and, most importantly, the complete absence of that strange, dark fog around her, which now seemed to have consumed half the room.

​His lips curved into a sly grin. With a sharp movement, Aventurine pulled her by the waist, making her gasp in surprise.

​"You might be right," he purred. "But we'll be playing by my rules."

​Her eyes flashed with curiosity. A small smile appeared on her lips as she leaned in, toying with the buttons on his shirt.

​Aventurine exited the VIP lounge with a lazy stride, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the space around him. His intuition was screaming that trouble was not far off. On his way to the main exit, he intercepted a casino employee. Without breaking stride, ​Aventurine handed the man the bag heavy with his winnings and shoved a slip of paper with a handwritten account number into employes' hand.

​"All of it in here. And no delays," he clipped out, giving a dismissive wave without looking back.

​Aventurine could feel the weight of players' stares on his back in a mixture of interest, envy, and hidden malice. But with a "witness" on his arm, he hoped no one would risk putting a bullet in his back just yet. It wasn't a guarantee, though. He was walking a razor's edge, as always.

​Just at the exit, his companion stopped, pouting.

​"You tricked me!" her voice trembled with righteous indignation. "There isn't going to be another game, is there? And my services, by the way, are expensive. Very expensive!"

​Aventurine rolled his eyes for a brief moment before pulling a thick wad of cash from his pocket and pressing it into her hand. Her eyes lit up instantly.

​"Go buy me a drink at the bar," he said with a sly smile. "You can keep the change."

​He gave her a wink. She sized him up, clearly debating if he was worth her precious time. The money, however, was a convincing argument. With her chin held high, she retreated to the bar.

Aventurine sighed in relief, feeling the tension in his body loosen just a little. One less problem to deal with. Without waiting for his drink, he finally left the casino, stepping out into the frosty autumn air. The fresh wind washed over his face, clearing away the last vestiges of stress, and he paused for a moment, savoring the feeling of unseen freedom.

​Aventurine headed toward his parking spot, spinning his car keys on a finger. Thankfully, it wasn't a long walk; his car was parked near the casino entrance. But as he approached it, something cold pressed between his shoulder blades, followed by a furious whisper hissed in his ear:

“Drop the keys and step away from the car. No tricks, boy, or I’ll smear your brains all over the asphalt.”

​Aventurine let out a long, weary sigh of a man who is constantly forced to deal with the predictability and foolishness of the people around him. This couldn’t even be considered a real threat to his life. Just another petty inconvenience in a series of nuisances this evening. Aventurine slowly turned his head and saw a familiar face. Predictable...

​The old man stood before him, a pistol aimed at his back with a trembling hand. He was flanked by a pair of goons who were clearly old mans' bodyguards. Aventurine’s gaze swept over their bulky frames but found nothing remarkable about them. Well, this encounter was to be expected, though he had sincerely hoped to avoid this kind of drama tonight.

​Aventurine gave an ironic sigh, then slowly raised one hand in a gesture of surrender while placing his other over his chest, where his own pistol rested beneath his jacket. The keys slipped from his fingers and hit the asphalt with a metallic clang.

​"You wound me to the very heart, my dear 'friend'," he said mockingly, tilting his head. "I was under the naive impression that this esteemed establishment honored the unwritten rules and played fair. And here you are, tarnishing the casino's glorious reputation with such…" he paused, searching for the word, "...crude methods?"

​He turned carefully, with no sudden movements, to face his attacker. The gun barrel was now pressed directly against his chest, right over his heart. The old man's face twisted into a sneer, clearly irritated by his feignedl calm.

​"Don't feed me that crap, pup!" man hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "There's no such thing as the kind of luck you had tonight! You cheated, I know it! So make a choice: either you give me back my money and everything else you have, including that expensive watch of yours, or I'll set you up on a date with the local worms at the city dump!"

​For added emphasis, he pressed the gun harder into Aventurine's chest. In response, however, Aventurine merely raised an eyebrow and shook his head, a wry smile still playing on his lips as if the entire situation were nothing more than an amusing misunderstanding. ​

This blatant composure was like a red flag to a bull. The old man's hand, gripping the pistol, began to shake more violently, his knuckles white with strain. A near-maniacal fire ignited in his eyes. As if summoned by his fury, thick, dark wisps of smoke began to materialize around him. They coiled and slithered, wrapping around his figure like living things, distorting his features into something unnatural and frightening. ​The old man's eyes seemed to fill with blood. His teeth elongated into sharp, animal-like fangs, while his face slowly transformed into something monstrous. Aventurine blinked, trying to convince himself it was just another hallucination. But the vision did not fade. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a tense seriousness. ​

His gaze locked onto the old man, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in that gaze that made his attacker stumble. He now looked like a cornered animal but held his ground. Something about Aventurine terrified him, as if the real threat wasn't the man holding the gun, but the boy he so despised. ​And then, from within the thick fog, came a low, chilling whisper. The sound was hoarse and multi-voiced, as if the smoke itself were speaking, but Aventurine couldn't make out the words.

​He tensed, glancing at the bodyguards. They looked completely unfazed, as if nothing unusual were happening. There was no sign they saw or heard what was unfolding around their employer. ​The old man’s finger began to tighten on the trigger, his face contorting with a feral rage as if he surrendered to the influence. But at that exact moment, the girl in red appeared in the casino doorway, carrying a glass of expensive whiskey. She froze on the top step, her mouth falling open at the scene. The glass slipped from her manicured fingers and shattered on the steps.

​"Oh my god, what is going on out here?!" her shriek cut through the night like a siren. "Security! Police! Somebody!"

​With that, she spun on her heel and darted back into the casino. ​

Her scream broke the old man's trance, making him flinch. It was all the opening Aventurine needed. Moving with lightning speed, he lunged forward, knocking the pistol from the man's grasp with a single, precise strike. In the next motion, he expertly swept the man's legs out from under him. As the old man collapsed with a dull groan, and Aventurine with a sharp kick sent the pistol skittering under a nearby car, far from reach. ​

The bodyguards barely had time to react. Before they could move, a crowd of onlookers, drawn by the commotion, spilled out of the casino. Their curious stares and whispers made the goons freeze with indecision. ​The black smoke that had enveloped the old man dissipated as if it had never been there. The attacker now lay on the ground, groaning, no longer a threat. Aventurine looked down at him, calmly adjusting his jacket. ​He picked up his keys, swept his gaze over the crowd, and gave a small, mocking wave as if taking a bow after an improvised performance. Then he walked to his car without another glance. He didn't hesitate, pulling out of the parking lot, he sped into the night, barely suppressing the tremor in his hands as they gripped the steering wheel. ​

Only when Aventurine was inside his apartment with the door locked behind him did he finally let the mask fall. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and his hands were still shaking. He slowly slid down the wall, the weight of the evening finally crashing down on him. Running his fingers through his hair, he suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. These strange visions he tried so hard to ignore were becoming more and more frequent.

​He pushed himself up and walked on stiff legs to the bedroom, nearly getting tripped by his three cats as they ran out to greet him. He went to the nightstand, opened the bottom drawer, and carefully placed his pistol inside, next to a bottle of pills and a half-forgotten pack of cigarettes. After a moment's hesitation, Aventurine picked up the pill bottle, weighing it in his hand... A Doctor had once prescribed them, promising they would help with the hallucinations, ease the symptoms... ​He poured a handful into his palm and stared at them, replaying the night's events in his mind. The damn hallucinations were only getting stronger, more vivid and real. The evening had only proven how useless this treatment was.

He stared at the pills for another minute before tossing them back into the drawer with a flash of irritation. His hand automatically reached for the pack of cigarettes he had long ago promised himself he would quit. He hesitated, then pulled one out, justifying it as a "special occasion." Grabbing a lighter, he walked out onto the balcony. ​

The cold night air touched his skin as he took a deep drag. The smoke filled his lungs, slowly calming his frayed nerves, granting a brief, deceptive peace. He looked out at the city, drowning in lights. Down below, life churned on: the distant hum of the city and flickers of lights. The cigarette smoke drifted up, dissolving into the darkness, his thoughts floating somewhere far away. ​

"I'll have to ask Ratio for something stronger tomorrow," he thought idly, gazing at the city lights.

​He lifted his gaze to the sky, expecting the usual veil of darkness diluted by the city's glow. But instead, his eyes caught a sudden, brilliant flash directly above him. A falling star slashed across the night sky, leaving a short, luminous trail in its wake. It was so bright that it stood out even against the electric glare of the metropolis.

​Aventurine watched, mesmerized, as it streaked toward the horizon and vanished.

​"Maybe I should have made a wish," he muttered to himself, his gaze unfocused, staring into the distance.

His sister, probably, would have said something like that. But she was gone. And Aventurine had stopped being a child and believing in fairy tales a long, long time ago.

***

The fall to Earth was always an agonizing process, one impossible to describe in simple words. To move between worlds was akin to being violently stripped of one’s very essence, irrevocably robbing an angel of the weightlessness and ease that was as natural as breathing.

​Sunday laid on the cold stone floor, feeling as though his body had been ground between giant millstones. His chest rose with difficulty, each breath a painful effort. A dull ache pulsed in his head, as if someone were pounding on it with an invisible hammer, and his body felt shattered, as if it had been pulled apart and then clumsily put back together. He could feel every muscle ache with strain as the foreign gravity of Earth pressed down on his bones, making them feel impossibly heavy.

​He forced his eyes open and surveyed his surroundings. It appeared he had awoken in an old, abandoned church. Faint moonlight struggled to pierce the broken stained-glass windows, casting eerie shadows across the dusty pews and cold stone floor. The altar, which must have once been majestic, was now coated in a thick layer of dust. The silence was absolute, save for the sound of his own ragged breathing.

​With great effort, he lifted a hand, flexing his fingers, trying to determine if this body was truly his or just a foreign, unnatural shell he was now forced to inhabit. Every movement was a struggle. He felt a strange heaviness in everything: his limbs, head, and even in his thoughts.

​Lying on the floor was becoming unbearable. His skin began to tingle unpleasantly, going numb where it met the icy stones. And though angels knew no cold, Sunday was no longer certain if anything of his former essence remained in this new body. A tremor ran through him, a traitorous shiver he couldn't control. He grimaced and, using the altar for support, slowly pushed himself to his feet.

​Sunday took a moment to inspect his new form and noted with dismay that he was completely naked. He had been to Earth so rarely that he had forgotten this inconvenient detail of the transition... It seemed like his celestial garments did not survive the journey. He knew that in the eyes of mortals, his current state would not only be inappropriate but would also invite a host of questions he had no desire to answer. His first priority, therefore, was to find something to wear.

​He took a deep breath and looked around. The abandoned church seemed to breathe with age, its walls holding the echoes of forgotten prayers. In a dusty storeroom, cluttered with old books, broken candelabras, and tarnished relics, his gaze fell upon an old chest. Opening it, he found the coarse, faded vestments of a priest. The fabric was heavy, saturated with dampness and the dust of ages, but it was better than nothing.

​After putting on the robes, Sunday brushed them off, trying in vain to rid them of the sharp, musty smell of decay. The rough fabric chafed unpleasantly against his skin, but at least it covered his nakedness. He found a wide belt, once probably black but now faded to a dirty gray, and wrapped it around his waist, attempting to give the shapeless cassock some semblance of form.

​In the far corner of the storeroom stood an old mirror, its surface gleaming dimly in the moonlight. Stepping closer, Sunday peered at his reflection. What he saw made him wince: the cassock hung on him like a sack, making him look like a beggar. His halo still hovered above his head, but it had lost its material density, reduced to a barely perceptible shimmer, like an optical illusion. He passed a hand through it, watching as his fingers met no resistance.

Silver hair shone in the dim light, catching the moonbeams. His skin, pale and flawless, emitted a faint, spectral glow, making his figure look somewhat unreal. Sunday frowned, trying to remember if the skin of normal humans glowed under the moon, but he couldn't recall anything of the sort. He worried that this strange luminescence would betray his nature and jeopardize the mission. In a fit of desperation, he ran his hands over his arms, trying to wipe the glow off his skin as if it were irritating glitter or dust. But his efforts were useless and the light remained.

​His wings, delicate and fragile, still bristled behind his ears. The feathers were in disarray, and he irritably smoothed them down until they looked more presentable. He knew he should probably find a way to hide them, but for now, he hoped they wouldn't arouse any suspicion among mortals.

​Giving himself one last critical look, Sunday took a deep breath, trying to accept that this was the best he could do under the circumstances. His usual immaculate appearance had been left behind in Heaven; here on Earth, he would have to make do. Gathering what was left of his dignity, he pushed open the heavy church doors and stepped out into the night.

​Outside, the cold night air and the low hum of the city greeted him. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the dark silhouettes of the trees, flickered the lights of the metropolis, and that was where he had to go.

Chapter Text

Whoever invented morning traffic deserved their own special circle in hell, Aventurine thought irritably, tapping a nervous drumbeat on the steering wheel. The GPS showed a solid ribbon of red, as every road to his office was completely gridlocked. He glanced at the clock and, with a heavy sigh, decided it would be much faster on his own two feet. He confidently pulled into the first available paid parking garage, which had simply astronomical prices, but he had no other choice, and it was the lesser of two evils. Aventurine killed the engine and, grabbing his phone, set off on foot.

Somewhere between the second and third intersection, he caught himself yawning uncontrollably. The night had been restless; sleep had eluded him, and he’d spent more time tossing and turning than actually resting. Now, he was practically dragging himself along on autopilot.

A meeting with the board of directors loomed ahead... the very same one where he could expect at least two hours of torture as the old corporate sharks circled his quarterly reports, searching for any inconsistency they could latch onto. Aventurine desperately needed something to jolt his brain back into working order. A glance at his watch told him that a few minutes for coffee wouldn't make a difference, since he was already running late.

"Better to be late than to arrive in a comatose state," he muttered to himself, turning toward the nearest coffee shop with a pretentious name.

Aventurine ordered a double espresso and a small croissant. He had skipped breakfast today, and while he wasn't exactly hungry, the prospect of listening to another lecture from Ratio on the importance of "a balanced diet for optimal cognitive function" or a reprimand from Topaz about "self-care as an investment in the future" was already giving him a phantom headache.

Without lingering, he tossed a bill onto the counter that made the barista blink in surprise and, without waiting for the change, grabbed the paper cup and headed for the door. Time was already tight.

Just as he was leaving the coffee shop, Aventurine nearly spilled the coffee all over his expensive designer shirt when a little boy shot past him like a small hurricane.

"MOM! MOM! LOOK!" the child shrieked, pulling along a woman who was trying her best to keep up but was clearly losing the uneven battle against childish enthusiasm. "IT'S AN ANGEL! A REAL ANGEL!"

Aventurine froze, trying to balance the coffee cup in his hand, his eyebrow twitching almost imperceptibly. An angel? In the middle of the city? It sounded as absurd as a politician claiming to be honest during a debate. And yet... curiosity slowly got the better of him. He took a small sip of coffee, casually following the direction the child had run with his eyes.

And then he saw him.

The "angel" was standing a few meters from the coffee shop, and Aventurine's first thought was:

That should be illegal.

No one had the right to look so... inappropriately beautiful in the middle of the morning rush hour. The stranger stood out from the crowd like a diamond in a pile of gravel, or a line of Shakespeare in a microwave manual. His presence created a visual dissonance, and for a second, Aventurine even wondered if it was just a sleep-deprived illusion. But he was already willing to declare that this was, quite possibly, the most handsome man in the entire metropolis.

Silvery hair shimmered softly in the morning sun, and his pale, porcelain skin seemed to glow from within with an ethereal, pearlescent light. His precise, deliberate movements, posture, and a subtle detachment in every gesture seemed to scream of a higher class… if not royalty, then certainly an ancient aristocratic lineage.

It was the kind of beauty that commanded the eye, demanding attention, adoration, and an acknowledgment of its superiority over common people.

But then Aventurine saw his clothes.

A laugh got stuck in his throat, threatening to burst out. This "angel" was draped in a cassock that looked as if it had been exhumed from the grave of a nineteenth-century priest. Dusty and shapeless, with suspicious stains of unknown origin, it hung on his slender frame like a sack on a hanger. And sticking out from behind his ears were white wings that looked more like cheap theater props. Someone must have forgotten that an angel's wings grow from their back, Aventurine thought, hiding a smile behind the rim of his coffee cup as he decided to get a closer look.

A small flock of teenage girls armed with smartphones had already gathered around the stranger. They giggled, nudged each other, and pleaded with him to take a picture with them.

"Oh, please," one of them, the boldest, pleaded, aiming her phone at him. "Just one photo! It's free, right? We'll make you famous online!"

Without waiting for an answer, she pressed the button. And immediately shrieked in frustration.

"What the...?!" she jabbed furiously at the screen, which had suddenly gone black. "It was just working! My mom's gonna kill me!"

"You're a looser," her friend giggled, turning to the "angel" and sizing him up. "So who are you cosplaying? A character from a new game? Is this an ad?"

The first girl, unwilling to give up, pulled a Polaroid camera from the depths of her bag.

"Fine, screw technology, analog is king!" she announced triumphantly.

Aventurine watched this little performance, a half-smile hidden by another sip of coffee, having completely forgotten he was supposed to be rushing to work. The girls continued to fumble with the camera, while the "angel", or whoever he was, stood frozen, looking clearly lost and a little clumsy. His gaze darted between the girls and some point in the distance, as if he were calculating an escape route.

Aventurine watched with undisguised amusement. This "cosplayer" looked so foolish and helpless in his dusty cassock and bristling wings that teasing him could, without a doubt, enter his personal ranking of best morning entertainments.

Finally, the camera clicked, and the stranger, as if waking from a trance, spoke.

"Please, excuse me... I must be going."

His voice was melodic and soft, yet it held an undercurrent of barely perceptible authority. It was a voice one felt compelled to listen to. A voice, Aventurine thought, that belonged in a choir under the high vaults of a cathedral, not on a dusty, noisy city street.

People this perfect don't exist, Aventurine thought, feeling a wave of irrational irritation rise within him. He couldn't stand people like this "pretty boy"... too perfect and pure, as if polished to flawlessness. Something about him struck a nerve far deeper than Aventurine was willing to admit.

A sudden, burning desire flared within him to shatter that perfect facade, to rip off the mask of perfection and expose an ordinary human underneath, with all his flaws, weaknesses, and dirty little secrets. He had already opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment, but the stranger beat him to it, offering a bow. The movement was both graceful and old-fashioned, as if learned from an eighteenth-century etiquette manual. The girls squealed with delight, and the "angel" seized the opportunity to vanish into the crowd.

Aventurine stood there, still watching him go, mentally debating whether to act on his sudden whim. To chase him down and... and what? Talk to him? Expose him? Stop him? His thoughts were a jumble, but he just let out a heavy breath and shook his head.

"To hell with it," he muttered, finishing his now-cold coffee.

Aventurine looked at his watch and noted with annoyance that he was now fifteen minutes late. He hoped his boss, Jade, would also be running late today, but the probability of that was infinitesimally small. He was about to turn toward his office but stopped halfway.

Something pulled him back to where the two teenage girls were impatiently watching their camera slowly print the photograph. Without giving himself time to think, Aventurine walked over to them, pulling out his wallet.

"How much?" he asked without preamble.

The girls exchanged a look and stared at him as if he had just grown a second head.

"How much for what?" the camera's owner asked.

"For the photograph. Name your price."

"Are you kidding?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Aventurine replied, the corners of his lips turning up in what looked more like a predator's snarl than a smile. "Name your price, and I'll pay it."

The girl with the camera froze under his intense gaze but soon found her confidence, straightened up, and said defiantly, "It's not for sale."

Aventurine clicked his tongue in annoyance, but as an experienced gambler, he wasn't about to fold. He sized up the stubborn girl and sighed. Stubbornness was such an inconvenient quality in negotiations. He was about to raise his offer when he noticed smoke rising from the camera. At first, it was a faint wisp, but it quickly thickened. Before anyone could react, the device flashed for a second and exploded with a muffled pop, leaving behind the acrid smell of burnt plastic. The girl shrieked, dropping the wreckage along with the photograph.

"What the hell was that?!" her friend cried, taking a step back.

"My camera!" the girl was on the verge of tears. "I saved up for it all year!"

"What a tragedy," Aventurine drawled in the tone of someone who couldn't care less. "You know, I was prepared to pay enough for that photo to buy three of those cameras. Or four. Depending on your cooperation. But alas, you don't seem interested," he added mockingly.

With that, he turned and began to walk away, counting down in his head: three... two... one...

"Wait!"

Bingo.

Aventurine turned back slowly, a look of feigned surprise on his face.

"Yes? Did you want something?"

The girl held out the photograph, its edges now scorched, with the look of someone selling their soul to the devil and knowing it.

"I hope this wasn't some stupid prank."

"Not at all," he said with a smile, as if to assure her of his sincerity. "I'd call it a mutually beneficial transaction."

As always, Aventurine acted with flair: with a swift motion, he pressed a substantial amount of cash into her hand, giving her no chance to change her mind. Then, with a dexterity a cardsharp would envy, he took the photograph and twirled it between his fingers as if it were a playing card before tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

"There we go," he said, looking at the girl with satisfaction. "Congratulations, you've just closed your first successful deal."

With that, he gave a slight bow, touching the brim of his hat, and turned to head toward his office.

Why had he done that? Aventurine didn't know, and he didn't want to analyze it. It was easier to write it off as a whim, or the desire to possess something unusual. Anything but admitting that the stranger with wings behind his ears and the voice of an angel had hooked something deep inside him.

***

The mortal world was an exhaustingly chaotic place where the very concept of order seemed to be absent. With this thought, Sunday sat slumped on a park bench, trying to catch his breath. His search had hit a dead end hours ago, when he realized that he was attracting far too much unwanted attention. He once again looked down at his dusty, shapeless cassock, which smelled of age and mold, and let out a long, suffering sigh. In Heaven, this attire had seemed a logical choice for blending in among mortals. Here, however, in the heart of a modern metropolis, it made him stand out like a neon sign. Although, perhaps the wings were the main problem, but Sunday couldn't be sure.

He had lost count of the number of people who had approached him asking for a photograph. But each time, their devices would mysteriously fail at the most inopportune moment, a fact for which Sunday secretly thanked fate. People had called him by a variety of names. "Priest," which he could understand, given the cassock. "Promoter" - that term remained a mystery, despite his attempts to decipher its meaning from context. But what puzzled him most was the word "cosplayer." One helpful teenager had tried to explain that it meant dressing up as a character, but the logic of voluntarily wearing uncomfortable clothing for entertainment eluded Sunday’s understanding.

But what truly baffled him were those who openly called him an angel.

"Did it hurt?" one girl asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

Sunday frowned, searching his memory of the morning for any injuries.

"Did what hurt?" he inquired cautiously.

"You know, when you fell from heaven, of course!" she beamed, which only confused him further.

"How do you know about that?" he asked with genuine alarm, mentally reviewing where he could have made a mistake and exposed himself.

The girl suddenly blushed to the tips of her ears, then began to laugh strangely, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she ran off altogether, muttering something about him being "too cute for this world." Sunday was left standing in complete bewilderment, wondering if madness was contagious in the mortal world. Scenes like this repeated with frightening regularity. People laughed when he asked serious questions, blushed at his ordinary phrases, and tried to photograph him furtively, thinking he wouldn't notice. Their reactions defied all logic, as if they were living in a play for which he hadn't been given the script.

Sunday wearily rubbed his temples, feeling the onset of a headache - another unpleasant discovery of his terrestrial body. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to studying modern mortal culture instead of immersing himself in romanticized descriptions of past centuries. His heart had always belonged to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Those eras when order was valued, manners mattered, and clothing didn't look like a random collection of rags chosen in the dark. Modernity, in contrast, seemed to him a cacophony of visual and auditory noise, where everyone strove to shout louder than their neighbor.

He had read sociological treatises, studied historical chronicles, and even attempted modern literature (an effort that ended on the third page of a novel where the main character contemplated the meaning of life while eating pizza in his underwear). Robin adored her missions to Earth and always returned with a heap of stories she would excitedly tell him in between her duties. She connected with people easily, understood their quirks, and even found charm in them.

The memory of her brought a fleeting warmth that immediately dissolved in the cold autumn air. Robin would have known what to do. She would have smiled, told him everything was fine, and patted him on the head (ignoring all his protests), explaining everything in simple terms.

But Robin wasn't here, and he had to manage on his own.

The theory he had so carefully studied crumbled upon collision with reality, like a house of cards in a gust of wind. People did not fit into neat diagrams. Their behavior was unpredictable, and their world was endlessly noisy and full of frantic motion. It threw him off balance, irritated him. He felt like an outsider here, a mismatched puzzle piece that didn't fit the overall picture.

Of course, he could use his powers to create a form that would allow him to blend in with the crowd. But the very thought met with internal resistance. A glamour required constant concentration, drained his energy, and, worst of all, dulled his senses. He was already struggling to perceive what he was searching for... that elusive "something" scattered throughout the city. It seemed to hide from him, dissolving in the noise.

Sunday looked at his hands: bare, without the familiar white gloves that had always served as a barrier between him and the rest of the world. His skin felt too exposed, too vulnerable. Every accidental touch from a passerby left an invisible trace that made him want to scrub his skin raw. The number of people who had touched him today, as they patted his shoulder, shaken his hand, tried to touch his wings, had already exceeded his usual annual quota for physical contact.

With a heavy sigh, he rose from the bench. The cassock snagged on a spot of peeling paint, and he tugged the fabric, hearing the distinct sound of tearing threads. Perfect. Now he wasn't just a strange man in a cassock, but a strange man in a torn cassock.

He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating. A soft, golden radiance momentarily spread around him, his halo flared brighter, and the wings behind his ears trembled as if touched by a gentle breeze. It lasted no more than a few seconds, and Sunday desperately hoped no one had noticed. But the area around him remained empty.

He exhaled and took his first step out of the park. All he could do was hope that his strength would not fail him and that his disguise would hold until he found what he was looking for.

***

"I nearly died. One more minute in that meeting and..." Aventurine exhaled dramatically, running a hand through his blond hair and completely mussing up his perfect hairstyle.

"You say that as if you weren't the one who was an hour and a half late," Ratio responded dryly, not even bothering to look up from his cup.

They had just escaped the stuffy conference room and were now standing by the coffee machine in the spacious hall. Ratio methodically stirred the sugar in his espresso, watching the crystals slowly dissolve into the dark liquid. Aventurine held an untouched cappuccino, bought purely for show, to have something to occupy his hands.

"I had to deal with this whole mess before you arrived, you know," Ratio continued, finally honoring him with a displeased glance. "Before you deigned to grace us with your presence."

"Ah, Ratio, don't be such a bore," Aventurine waved a dismissive hand, setting his cup aside and leaning against the counter. "You know what the traffic is like in the mornings."

"Traffic?" Ratio raised an eyebrow, his tone turning to ice. "More likely, you gambler, you spent another all-nighter at the casino, thoughtlessly blowing your life and salary on your games of chance, only to suddenly remember in the morning that you, imagine that, have a job."

The words were as sharp as the crack of a whip, laced with such an accusatory subtext that anyone else would have been offended. But not Aventurine. The only thing that might have stung was how quickly Ratio had seen right through him. Yes, he had dropped by the casino last night, but that wasn't the reason he was late. He was too good at what he did for a few rounds of poker to affect his performance in any way. However, Ratio didn't need to know that.

Aventurine smiled that signature sly grin of his, the one that invariably heralded trouble. If Ratio was so sure he was right, why not play along?

"Allow me to clarify, my dear Doctor," he began, pulling a coin from his pocket. "I wasn't 'blowing' money, as you so elegantly put it. I was investing and multiplying capital. You know I'm not the type to lose."

The coin danced effortlessly between his fingers, glinting in the light and creating a hypnotic rhythm that was clearly getting on Ratio's nerves. Aventurine shot him a look, that was both daring and playful, full of a silent challenge. It was their old game, no less a gamble than poker, and Aventurine always came out the winner.

Ratio didn't rush to answer. His eyes followed the coin's movement until he finally let out a heavy sigh, like a man tired of repeating the same thing over and over.

"Talking to you is like banging your head against a wall," he said wearily. "Utterly pointless. If you intend to continue flushing your life away at the casino, that's your choice. But when this all inevitably blows up in your face, I'll be the first one to say, 'I told you so'."

"Oh, Ratio," Aventurine said with a smile, continuing to roll the coin as if he hadn't heard a word. "I'm touched by your concern, really. But you see, our whole life is nothing more than a game. And as you well know, I always end up the final winner."

Ratio narrowed his eyes, studying him.

"At least try to ensure your... amusements don't harm the company's reputation," he said at last, his voice sterner. "The Intellectual Development Department can't cover for you forever."

The coin flashed one last time before Aventurine deftly caught it and slipped it back into his pocket. He chose to ignore Ratio's barb, turning his attention to the coffee machine with a look so focused one might think choosing between a latte and an americano was a life-altering decision. The silence stretched until Aventurine broke it.

"By the way, Ratio, regarding my request from this morning's message..."

His usual playfulness vanished without a trace. The shift in his tone was so abrupt it clearly threw Ratio off balance. He froze for a moment, then slowly turned to Aventurine, giving him a careful, appraising look.

"I cannot prescribe you medications of that class," he replied after a pause. "If your condition is truly deteriorating that rapidly, you require proper medical attention."

Aventurine didn't answer immediately, pretending to be engrossed in the coffee prices. The silence between them grew heavy, the tension palpable. Finally, Aventurine met Ratio’s eyes, his own now devoid of their earlier carelessness, holding only a stark emptiness.

"If you don't want to help, then at least stay out of my life with your unsolicited advice," he said quietly, but his voice came out harsher than he intended.

Ratio sighed heavily, set down his cup, and had just opened his mouth to speak when he froze. His gaze shot to a point somewhere behind Aventurine's back. From his tightening lips and clenched jaw, it was clear he was already bracing for another problem.

Aventurine turned to follow his gaze and immediately recognized the young woman approaching them at a brisk pace. It was the new secretary for their boss, Lady Jade.

Aventurine smirked, masterfully hiding the unpleasant premonition coiling like a knot somewhere beneath his ribs. A summons from Jade rarely meant anything good, but he had long since learned to project an air of absolute calm.

"If I get into trouble because of you, I'm going to strangle you," Ratio seethed through his teeth, his eyes still fixed on the approaching woman.

"Why, Ratio," Aventurine said with feigned innocence, standing up straight and adjusting his cuffs. "Am I capable of causing anyone trouble?"

Ratio just rolled his eyes.

"Good morning!" the breathless young woman blurted out, stopping abruptly before them. "Mr. Aventurine, Lady Jade is expecting you in her office. Immediately."

Not a single muscle twitched on Aventurine's face, though his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. It seemed his tardiness this morning had more serious consequences than he'd anticipated. Still, he knew how to keep up appearances. With a slight incline of his head, he replied with impeccable courtesy:

"Did Lady Jade deign to explain why she requires my humble person?"

"No, sir," the woman shifted nervously from foot to foot, as if she herself were afraid of the person who had sent her. "But she emphasized that the matter is urgent."

Ratio, who had been silently observing the exchange, raised a single, expressive eyebrow and stared at Aventurine. His look was so eloquent it needed no words.

"Well then, wish me luck," Aventurine turned to Ratio, flashing one of his signature smiles... the kind that could irritate and charm in equal measure, though in Ratio's case, it was almost certainly the former. "Once I'm done with the boss, I'd like to meet you and Topaz for lunch. My treat, of course."

Ratio said nothing, his entire posture broadcasting complete indifference to the offer and his intention to do as he pleased. But Aventurine had no doubt the Doctor would show up. Spinning on his heel, he started toward Jade's office with a casual stride.

***

The office was located not far from the conference hall, only a few minutes' walk. The secretary escorted him to a massive door, gave a short nod, and vanished without another word.

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before opening the heavy door.

Jade's office greeted him with the stern elegance of corporate luxury. The walls were lined with dark fumed oak bookshelves, filled with leather-bound documents and rare collector's editions that he was certain no one had ever opened. In the center of the room stood a massive dark wood desk with intricate carvings along its edges, a true work of art. Above it hung the chrome logo of the IPC.

Amidst the neatly arranged folders and documents on the desk, a vibrant red apple stood out as a stark accent.

Jade didn't look up when he entered. She sat at her desk, engrossed in the contents of an open folder. Her movements were smooth and precise. Long pink hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, and a wide-brimmed dark hat with exquisite ornaments gave her the air of a refined aristocrat rather than a mere office worker. A violet snake was coiled around her shoulders, its body draped like a living scarf. The reptile had lazily rested its triangular head on Jade's shoulder, its unblinking eyes closely following its mistress's every move.

Aventurine stepped forward in silence, stopping before the desk. He knew it was pointless to rush Jade; she operated on her own rhythm. She continued to read for several long seconds, her finger slowly tracing the lines. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she pulled a bright red lipstick from a drawer, signed the document with a flourish, and only then did she grace Aventurine with her attention.

"Ah, Aventurine. My most successful project," she said, a cunning glint in her eyes. "I've been waiting for you. Have a seat."

With that, she tossed the folder onto the floor as if its contents no longer mattered. Her movements were as graceful as a snake's, yet beneath the ease, one could feel the confidence of a predator. Aventurine sank into the chair opposite her, leaning back with deliberate nonchalance. But every muscle in his body was tense, ready for action.

Jade picked up the apple from the desk, turned it over in her hands, and offered it to Aventurine.

"Help yourself," she offered with a faint smile that was impossible to read. Was she joking, testing him, or was this a genuine gesture of goodwill?

Aventurine looked at the apple, then back at Jade. He didn't rush to take it, knowing that every action of hers had a hidden meaning.

"Thank you, but I must decline," he said at last, returning her polite but strained smile.

"Oh, don't look at me with such suspicion, child," Jade laughed melodically, tilting her head. Her fingers began to stroke the snake, which hissed in contentment. "I don't bite, you know. Although, I must admit, it's pleasant to be looked at with such an... fascinating gaze."

Aventurine did not rise to the provocation, maintaining an impassive expression. His eyes remained cold and calculating. He considered every gesture, every word, knowing that a single small mistake could snap the trap shut around him.

"I hear you put on quite a little show at the morning meeting," Jade continued, a note of genuine amusement in her voice. "A pity I missed such a spectacle..."

"Why the prelude?" Aventurine interrupted, his voice surprisingly calm. "Why am I here?"

Jade paused, continuing to slowly stroke the snake with two fingers. Then she reached into her desk, pulled out a hefty folder, and placed it before her. Her eyes gleamed in the desk lamp's light, and Aventurine felt the air in the room grow colder.

"The board held an emergency meeting," she said slowly, savoring every word. "A decision was made. You are being removed from your current project. Effective immediately."

The silence that followed her words was almost tangible. The tension in the room tightened like a string about to snap.

Perhaps she expected Aventurine to react violently. Expected him to get angry, to argue, to beg her to reconsider. She was clearly enjoying the moment, waiting for her prey to start thrashing in her snare. But Aventurine had no intention of giving her that satisfaction. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, blew a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well now," he said quietly, as if thinking aloud. "A semi-precious stone is always easily replaced."

His sly smile returned, as if nothing had happened that he wasn't prepared for.

"Though I don't envy the poor soul you decide to throw into this meat grinder in my place," he added indifferently, shrugging.

He met her gaze as if she were an equal opponent, not his superior. Something akin to approval flashed in Jade's eyes, as if she had gotten exactly the reaction she had hoped for.

"Ah, child, you're devaluing yourself again because it serves you," she noted.

Jade rose smoothly from her seat, picking up a cane with a decorative pommel that stood by her desk. Her movements remained impeccably elegant, but they held the grace of a cobra preparing to strike. The snake, which had been resting on her shoulders, slithered down, disappearing with a soft rustle somewhere under the desk.

Aventurine noticed a black smoke beginning to gather behind Jade, in a corner of the room. It moved unnaturally, like a living thing, writhing and changing shape in the air. A whisper, low and barely audible, like the distant echo of many voices, seemed to come from all corners of the room at once.

Aventurine clicked his tongue in annoyance. This was not a good time for these strange hallucinations to appear. He couldn't afford any show of weakness. Not now. Not in front of Jade. He tore his gaze away from the smoke, focusing all his attention on his boss.

Jade, interpreting his silence in her own way, took a step forward and elegantly hooked his chin with the pommel of her cane. The cold metal forced him to lift his head, and their eyes met. She studied his face with the interest of a collector examining a rare specimen.

"But you shouldn't write yourself off just yet," she said softly, though her tone was as cold as steel. "You know, Aventurine, this isn't the end for you. Rather, it's the beginning of something... more interesting."

Her words hung in the air. Aventurine knew there was more behind them, a hidden layer that was impossible to see for now. A normal person would have refused, would have walked away, but he felt a gambler's thrill. A high risk meant the high reward. He looked up, and his usually lifeless eyes ignited with the glint that only appeared when the stakes became truly high.

"You have my attention," he admitted.

"This new project does not forgive mistakes," Jade continued, her eyes flashing. The smoke behind her began to writhe with renewed vigor, as if reacting to her words. "Do you remember the price you paid for your place in this company? The bet you made all those years ago?"

She removed the cane and leaned in, her face so close he could feel her breath and smell the scent of her expensive perfume. Their eyes met, and his reflected the same dangerous gleam as her own. Now, Aventurine was finally beginning to understand where this conversation was heading.

"The stake was my life," he answered almost instantly.

Jade smiled slightly, her expression softening.

"Good that you remember," she patted him lightly on the cheek before pulling away. "This project will require an equivalent stake from you. Perhaps even greater. Don't disappoint me, child."

The smoke behind her thickened, taking on more sinister shapes. The whispers grew louder, as if the shadows themselves were awaiting his answer. Aventurine slowly pulled his lucky coin from his pocket. He tossed it high, watching it spin in the air, catching the light, and then, with a single, precise flick, sent it flying toward Jade. She caught it between two fingers without looking.

The terms had been stated. The stakes accepted. The die was cast.

The game had begun.

Chapter Text

The lunch break was in full swing. Topaz was sitting with jasmine tea and a mini strawberry tart at a corner table in the corporate cafeteria, secluded from the main stream of colleagues. The pages of an online pet store flickered on her tablet as she scrolled through categories, paying no attention to the bustle of conversations and the clatter of dishes nearby. With each passing minute, her virtual shopping trolley was being loaded with new things, but she was still not quite satisfied. She had been looking for over thirty minutes for something special and something that would be just right for her little pet.

"For cats, for dogs, for rabbits, there's even a whole section for ferrets…" she muttered to herself, irritably scrolling past another useless page. “But where are the products for miniature pigs? Why is no one thinking about them?”

Her eyes were so glued to the catalog that she didn't see a small black and white snout poking out of the large bag on the chair next to her. It was a small pig, whose little body could easily fit on Topaz's head, where he loved to ride when they were at home. The pig carefully extended his nose, sniffing for the delicious scent of the tart.

“Numby! No!” she cried, putting her hand on the plate with blinding speed.

However, the little rascal had already stuck out his tongue and licked a drop of cream from the edge of the plate. Topaz gave him a look full of reproach. She quickly looked around to find that no one was looking at them, then she removed the bag where the little guy had gone off and zipped it up so that only a small hole for air was left.

“We had an agreement: you are invisible in the office!” she said quite angrily, pretending to look for something in the bag and asking, “Do you want for me to get fired?”

Fortunately, Topaz's colleagues were completely oblivious to what was going on, deeply engaged in their own conversations. Topaz knew very well that she was breaking the rules of the company in a spectacular fashion by bringing a living creature in the building. But, on the other hand, the thought of leaving Numby all alone in the empty apartment during the day was just as bad. The little creature would get so lonely that she wouldn’t be able to leave him. Besides, she also had a perfect alibi for her own peace of mind: if Jade could keep her scary purple snake in her office, which scared half the staff, then why couldn’t she secretly bring in a harmless miniature pig? The question was, of course, rhetorical but it made her feel better.

She sighed and glanced at the bag from which she could hear a contented oink. Unlike Topaz, Numby apparently considered his little adventure a complete success. Topaz smoothed back a stray white strand of hair and refocused on the product catalog.

She had just reached the "Exotic Pets" section and was hopefully beginning to browse when her tablet made a very unpleasant notification sound. Topaz clicked her tongue in displeasure. Her lunch break was special to her and wasn't supposed to be disturbed, but it seemed no one in this company had ever heard of personal boundaries. She opened the notification squinting at it, seeing there was a document with the quarterly project report attached. The accompanying text from Ratio was entirely in his style:

"Our brilliant gambler, of course, forgot to send this on time. Attached, before management starts asking uncomfortable questions."

Topaz exhaled so heavily that her bangs fluttered up. She pursed her lips in displeasure, already anticipating the headache that would come from having to deal with another pile of problems. She had been assigned to the "Belobog" project for four months now, and the team composition could serve as a perfect illustration for the concept of "professional hell."

Ratio was a person who, along with his biting and sarcastic cynicism, had the habit of preaching on any given subject, but at least he was a consistent and reliable professional you could count on. He was someone with whom you could establish a working relationship based on mutual respect for the observance of deadlines and quality of work.

But Aventurine… Just the sound of his name was enough to make her eyes twitch. Working with him felt like the task of defusing a bomb that was ready to explode at any minute. His concepts, she was forced to admit, were usually great, but each idea he put forward had the likelihood of bringing about an absolute disaster, and risk management turned into the game of Russian roulette with five bullets out of six.

Topaz quickly scanned the report, mentally noting all the areas that required urgent revision, then set the tablet aside and looked at her bag, from which peaceful snuffling could now be heard.

"You're the only one that doesn't drive me crazy," she said softly to Numby, who oinked back.

***

Topaz was halfway through her tart when Aventurine practically crashed into the chair opposite her. The rich and strong smell of his very expensive cologne was so intense that Topaz involuntarily winced. Apparently, the notion of "moderation" was not in Aventurine's vocabulary, and, just in case, he had decided to splash half of the bottle on himself.

Well, her peaceful lunch break was officially over. The only comfort was the little noise from the depth of her bag, which indicated that she would not have to make an effort to hide Numby from the crawly eyes of her colleague.

"And here is my favorite chip," he said with that one special smile which was clearly designed only to get on her nerves. "I've been looking all over for you. I didn't realize you preferred to dine in such…" he stopped, casting a contemptuous look over the cafeteria, "…humble establishments."

Topaz mentally counted to five, then to ten. Her fingers clenched the spoon so tightly that it nearly slipped from her grasp.

"How many times do I have to tell you... keep your poker slang for the casino," she growled through her clenched teeth, giving him an angry look. "I am a human being, Aventurine. An individual. Not a bargaining chip."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and looked at her with such a look as if he was telling a very obvious fact to a small child

"And what's wrong with being a chip?" he said in a sarcastic tone. "Do you realize how valuable they are? A single chip in the right hands can be turned into a fortune."

Topaz narrowed her eyes, fighting the urge to scream her indignation.

"I don't like it," She said sharply, still glaring at her colleague.

Aventurine made a clucking sound with his tongue as if he were annoyed, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms with the air of an unrecognised philosopher

"And this is where the fundamental problem of human nature lies. People stubbornly refuse to accept the fact that they are players of the great game of life. Yet it all depends only on how you play with the cards you have dealt."

Topaz met his eyes. His gaze was heavy and intense as if he were physically pressing her not to resist. She mustered all her strength not to retreat.

One could easily miss the fact that Aventurine had mesmerizing eyes. The stark contrast of brilliant cyan and vivid magenta attracted the gaze, making anyone feel uneasy. There was something strange, even hypnotizing, about his stare that made even the most grounded people lose footing. This trait made him very dangerous in giving terms that were unfavorable as few resisted his pressure and surrendered over time.

"One day maybe you'll realize that not everyone wants to be a pawn in your games," she at last managed to say, deliberately turning away by placing her nose in her tablet.

The atmosphere went from warm to cold. Topaz filled herself up with the report, going through the pages one after another, wanting Aventurine to get fed up with her and go away. But to her regret, he was still sitting opposite her, looking at the people who were passing, trying to find somebody.

Just as Topaz was about to question what the hell he wanted when his face suddenly lit up. She followed his gaze and saw Ratio as he was standing by the pastry display, thoroughly inspecting the assortment.

"Hey, Doctor!" shouted Aventurine across the whole cafeteria, making a long-wave with his hand. "We are here!"

Topaz watched Ratio freeze the moment he heard the voice, his shoulders visibly tensing. He slowly turned toward them, met Aventurine's gaze, and his expression soured as if he'd just eaten a whole lemon. For a second, he clearly weighed the option to just turn around and walk away, but then, with the heavy sigh of a doomed man, he came toward them.

Topaz shook her head. Sometimes it seemed that Aventurine truly saw the world through his rose-tinted glasses, not just literally but figuratively. He was seemingly naive of the irritation that he provoked in others and rather thought everyone were just waiting for an opportunity to be in his company.

"I'll warn you right now, that I am nowhere near willing to take part in any of your crazy schemes," Ratio said, slowly sitting down at the table. "The only reason I came here is to talk about the project,"

Topaz could have sworn Aventurine's smile faltered for a second.

"Ah, the project," he said, dragging out the words in a very unsatisfactory tone.

She frowned, sensing he was about to pull some stunt. And she wasn't wrong.

"We will definitely speak about it... but, first, I have to show you something!" Aventurine exclaimed pulling a shot of paper from his shirt pocket which turned out to be a photograph. "Could barely hold back from buying it. Got it this very morning. A real find!"

Ratio, who was sitting next to Topaz, sighed, and rolled his eyes as if he was already regretting that he came over.

"If this is another 'priceless' lot from some underground auction, I'd rather not know the details," he said, uncrossing his arms.

"No, this is way more fascinating," Aventurine waved him off, and put the picture on the table between them. "Enjoy this marvel."

Topaz reluctantly leaned forward to have a look and almost immediately, she bewilderedly glanced back at her co-worker.

"What… is this?" she asked with suspicion, narrowing her eyes.

"'An angel'," he declared smugly, clearly thinking his joke was brilliant. "Well, or someone desperately trying to look like one. I ran into him this morning. I mean, who in their right mind walks around the city like that? A cassock, wings… it was so ridiculous, I'm still laughing."

Ratio, who had been watching with indifference, leaned closer to get a better look. He raised his eyebrows a little and looked at Aventurine with unconcealed concern.

Topaz checked the photo once again, hoping that maybe she had just seen it wrongly at first. But still, the picture was absolutely blank. Or if to be more exact, it was completely overexposed as if someone had taken a photo of the sun from a very close distance. There was no "angel," no one in a cassock... just an extremely bright white spot.

She peered trying to discern something, then leaned back and at the same time flicked the photo to the middle of the table with no particular care.

"You mean to tell me that you paid money for this?" Her voice was thick with sarcasm. "Congratulations, Aventurine. Nobody has ever managed to fool you like this before. The historic moment."

Aventurine looked puzzled and frowned at her words.

"Are you kidding me?" he sounded offended. "I'll remind you that I don't make bad deals. Ever."

"What would you call this then? " Topaz pointed her finger to the overly bright picture.

"Not 'what,' 'who'," Aventurine crossed his arms and looked at Topaz as if she were the least intelligent of people.

"Alright, who do you see here?" Topaz glared at him with one raised eyebrow.

"Someone in a cassock," said Aventurine clicking the photo with his finger. "And wings. Look carefully, Topaz. This is the cassock, these are the wings... and that bewildered, but... rather adorable face..."

Topaz looked at him like he was crazy. If he was trying to make fun of her, she wasn't going to let him have the pleasure of it.

"'An adorable face'," she repeated slowly and with difficulty restraining her scorn. "Are you serious?"

Aventurine opened his mouth, then shut it with a confused look like he himself hadn't quite grasped the point of his previous statement.

"I always knew gambling rots the brain," Topaz mumbled. "Just, I didn't expect it to be that quick..."

While Topaz and Aventurine were having an argument, Ratio stayed quiet. He looked very concentrated, trying to solve some sort of invisible puzzle. Then, without saying anything, he took the photograph. For the moment, he looked at the photo like it was some kind of bomb which could go off any second.

"Are you absolutely certain you see a person in this photo?" he asked all of a sudden, interrupting Topaz.

Aventurine got annoyed and threw an eye at Ratio like he had asked the dumbest question in the world.

"Naturally, I am dead sure."

A silence full of tension filled the atmosphere. Slowly and silently, Aventurine removed the photo from Ratio, folded it with a lot of care, and put it in his breast pocket. His actions were gradual and unusually careful. If Topaz was not acquainted with him, she could have easily assumed that the picture was very valuable to him.

Ratio was still sitting motionless, his gaze fixed on Aventurine, his eyes betraying a furious thought process.

"Aventurine," he said hesitantly, looking at him as if he was going to say more but then seemed to have changed his mind. "Never mind, we'll talk about this later..."

He nodded, not really to anyone but himself. Then, without another word, he slowly got up and left through the cafeteria exit.

Aventurine stayed put, unusually silent. He had taken a small chocolate covered in gold from somewhere and was now turning it over in his fingers, inspecting it closely. His expression was absent, his thoughts clearly far away.

Topaz sat motionless, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Whatever it was, dealing with her colleagues' psychological problems was not part of her job description. She had a deadline, and these two kept getting sidetracked by nonsense.

Aventurine, clicking his tongue in annoyance, suddenly stood up. Putting on his ever-present rose-tinted glasses and hat, he was clearly about to leave.

"And where do you think you are going?" asked Topaz.

"Oh, I have so many things that need my attention," he said slowly. Then he laid the chocolate down on the table, right in the middle. His eyes glinted with a sly, familiar sparkle. Or was it just her?

"Business?" Topaz's eye twitched. "We have a project meeting in an hour. A compulsory meeting. You know it very well."

Aventurine just gave a nonchalant shrug in reply.

"Yeah, I totally forgot to tell you," he pretended to brush an imaginary piece of dust off his lapel. "Today I was taken off the project, so it isn't my problem anymore."

"WHAT?!?" Topaz stood up so fast that her tablet flew off the table onto the floor.

That was very crucial information and he was only telling her now?! He should have started with that!

"Are... are you serious?! " she said astonished as she felt the ground begin to move under her feet.

But Aventurine was not paying attention at all. He merely tipped his hat in a mocking farewell gesture and, spinning on his heel, made his way to the exit.

"AVENTURINE!" Topaz yelled.

She was about to dash after him, grab him by the collar, and shake an explanation out of him, but at that exact moment, Numby having sniffed chocolate jumped out of her bag.

"No, no, no!" She screamed, trying to cut off her pet's path.

Topaz, in the chase for the pig, hit the edge of the table which was leaning precariously, and utensils fell with loud clanks. After managing to grab Numby who was already near the sweets, she tightly held him to her chest and turned back to the door. Aventurine stood in the doorway and she could swear she saw the corner of his mouth turn into a victory smirk before he disappeared into the hallway.

A crowd of onlookers was already surrounding her. Colleagues were casting different looks at her and the wriggling Numby from wide-eyed surprise to poorly-hiding amusement. Someone was already pulling out their phone.

But Topaz was not interested in their gossip. Instead, she was filled with rage and was picturing in great detail the revenge she would take on Aventurine when she next saw him.

***

The journey was an hour and a half long and took him through deserted roads. The further he was from the city center the more he felt he was going in the wrong direction. When the car, at last, came to a halt, he looked out of the window. It was some backwater on the outskirts of the city, and not a single soul was visible at first sight. Only a building could be discerned from the distance: crooked and dismal, with a visibly askew bell tower, forgotten by all but time itself.

Aventurine double-checked his GPS. The coordinates were accurate with the dot on the map indicating that he was right at his destination. With a deep sigh, he turned off the engine. The location somehow looked shady even by his standards and he had seen some pretty shifty places before.

Stalling for a moment, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his revolver. As usual, he meticulously inspected the magazine and after affirming that everything was in order, he hid the weapon under his jacket. Simultaneously, a photo flew out of his chest pocket... the very one that had been a source of so much trouble this morning.

Aventurine picked it up and frowned, examining the picture. The photo still showed the stranger in a cassock, with wings by his head. His stupid face… Aventurine winced. No, it wasn't adorable. It was pure foolishness, and he still couldn't believe he had actually said that.

However, Aventurine couldn't deny that the photo itself was rather curious. He wasn't sure whether it was a flaw of the old Polaroid or not, but a shimmering, iridescent aura was visible around the figure, giving the image a holographic effect. The thing was very beautiful and unusual. Maybe it was worth the money he had spent on it. But all this with Topaz and Ratio… He still did not get their problem. They were clearly trying to tease him, nothing more.

An unpleasant thought stirred in the back of his mind: what if this was just another hallucination? Seeing something in a photo that others didn't notice, that was a new, even for him. In a fit of irritation, he threw the picture into the glove compartment where it belonged.

His view then shifted back to the building. Even from this distance, he could see the arched windows with the remains of stained glass, the peeling walls, covered in places with ivy. It was obviously an old church, slowly crumbling under the onslaught of time and nature.

Why would IPC buy this place? Aventurine had no idea, nor did he plan to dig into the reasons of his bosses... at least not for some time. While the company had its flaws, his duty remained the same: to finalize projects efficiently, even without knowing all the details.

He got out of the car. The cold autumn wind immediately cut through his jacket. Aventurine adjusted his clothes, his hand instinctively going to the revolver nestled in the chest holster beneath it, feeling its familiar weight. After locking his car, he proceeded toward the church.

The first thing to greet him was mud. The gravel underfoot was wet, in some places replaced by cracked tiles hidden under a layer of fallen leaves. Aventurine looked with annoyance at his expensive shoes, which were now hopelessly ruined by the mud. He swore quietly under his breath. It would have been so much better if he had gotten a change of clothes at home first.

Aventurine crossed the yard with slow, measured steps. He stopped at a cracked wall and ran a gloved hand over the old, cold stone, which came away coated in fine dust. With an irritable flick, he brushed it off, his gaze drifting up to the lopsided bell tower. The bell itself had long since vanished; only its rusted frame remained, lying half-buried in the earth below.

The longer he stayed here, the less he understood why he had been sent. The building itself offered no answers; at first glance, it was completely unremarkable. Just an ordinary abandoned church, whose wooden doors looked sturdy despite their tarnished carvings. The lancet windows were partially broken, but some colored glass still held in place.

His gaze fell on the marble steps leading to the entrance. They were covered in a thick layer of dirt, but if looked closely, there were tracks of shoes, left not long ago. Aventurine frowned.

The place was deserted and quiet in a weird way. The silence was only interrupted by the occasional cawing of the crows. If it was an illegal casino or a mafia hideout, where was the security? Most times, these kinds of places would be heavily secured in every sense: CCTV, armed guards, at least someone to check his ID. But here? Absolutely nothing…

Then again, it wasn't exactly true. Aventurine had been unable to rid himself of the odd, unpleasant sensation that someone was spying on him all this time. He kept glancing over his shoulder, his gaze quickly scanning the empty yard, but there was no one. Just a few leaves drifting in the wind and the old church walls standing up quietly to him.

He was not one of those who were scared of ghosts, because living people, in general, were a much greater threat, and he knew that by experience. However, at the moment, the mood of the place was so suffocating that it made him nervous. It was like the shadows were watching his every step.

His hand, which was working on autopilot, went to his revolver. The coldness of the gun gave the impression of being in control of the situation.

​He'd learn nothing more by remaining outside; the only way forward was to enter. Pushing the huge doors, he was surprised at how easily they gave way. With a slow, drawn-out creak that reverberated through the uninhabited hall, they opened.

Almost as if it were a continuation of the outside, the place was freezing. The air was heavy and thick with the smell of moisture and dust of many years. High ceilings were lost in the dark, their massive beams draped in thick cobwebs. A meager light filtered through the broken windows and surviving fragments of stained glass, casting colorful patches on the floor that did little to illuminate the space. The rows of wooden pews that were heavily covered with dust were along the central aisle that was leading to the altar. The stone floor was cracked and at some places, there were broken glasses and small stones covering the floor.

​Aventurine’s gaze swept slowly across the hall, freezing when it landed on the figure by the altar. He squinted into the darkness. A man. He stood with his back turned, head bowed, hands clasped as if in prayer. Light from the setting sun filtered through the stained-glass, bathing his silhouette in an eerie, multi-colored glow - an image uncannily similar to the holographic photograph left in the car.

He kept his breath for a moment. As much as Aventurine loved a risk and a gamble, now was not the time for messing around. With no hesitation and precision, which was largely due to his long experience, he pulled out his revolver, turned off the safety and aimed it at the stranger.

"Hey," his voice was sharp and clear as it bounced against the stone walls. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"

The figure at the altar flinched. Aventurine saw the shoulders stiffening, but the stranger didn't turn immediately, caught in indecision. Perhaps it was only the dusk lighting, but the multi-colored shimmer was becoming more and more distinct. He squinted and his finger tightened on the trigger.

"I know you can hear me," he added, his voice losing all its usual teasing but retaining the seriousness. "Turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them. And no sudden moves."

Still watching the stranger, Aventurine took a few very slow steps toward him. The man didn't move for a while, then began to turn slowly, finally letting the waning daylight fall upon him.

Silvery hair softly framed his face, an ancient cassock was cinched with a wide leather belt that had faded to gray with age, and those same ridiculous wings were sticking out from behind his ears. However, the most attractive thing about him were his eyes. They were golden and sharp, it looked like they had trapped all the glory of the setting sun and now glowed softly in the gloom of the hall. It turned out to be the same "angel" he'd met that morning. Smiling grimly to himself, he let out a defeated sigh and lowered his gun. 

"For fuck's sake..." he said tiredly and simultaneously ran his hand through his hair which messed up the blond strands. "Have you got the slightest idea that I might have killed you on the spot? What the hell are you doing here at this hour?"

The stranger stared at him intently, his expression completely unreadable.

"That's unlikely," he replied in the same melodic voice Aventurine remembered from the morning, a voice that was sinfully beautiful yet mysteriously calming.

"Want to test that theory?" Aventurine raised an eyebrow, putting away his revolver but leaving the flap unfastened. Just in case.

Perhaps it would have been a better choice if he had kept his revolver in hand, but he wasn't in a position to think clearly at that moment. A whirlwind of confusing and contradictory thoughts was swirling in his head. He had imagined any of those things happening here: an underground casino, a mafia den or even a warehouse for illegal goods but he would never have thought he was going to be met by this crazy cosplay guy again. If he had only come here with the purpose of taking some atmospheric shots with his costume then this stranger must be lacking the most basic instinct of self-preservation.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Aventurine finally asked, gesturing around the church. "Don’t tell me you're having a photoshoot in an angel costume inside an abandoned building."

The stranger’s golden eyes were filled with surprise. His hands moved to the wings by his head, but he stopped halfway, frozen in an odd position.

"What do you mean?" His voice got tense, his eyebrows furrowing. "How did you know I was an angel?"

Aventurine froze for a second, processing what he'd heard, and then burst out laughing so loud that the sound bounced off the walls

"How did I know?" Still chuckling, he wiped away an imaginary tear. "Have you looked at yourself?"

He spread his hands to demonstrate the obvious.

"The floor-length cassock, the wings that are attached to your ears, the weird light effect that is coming from your head and shaped like a halo," Aventurine began rattling off the points on his fingers. "If that is not the attire of an angel, then I really have no idea what else to call it."

An uncomfortable silence hung between them. The stranger averted his gaze and looked thoughtful. He was clearly making a conscious effort to pick his words. The decorative wings by his head twitched a little and Aventurine just couldn’t resist looking at them to see if he could figure the mechanism out. Perhaps there were some hidden wires or small motors inside?

While he was contemplating the mechanism of the costume, the "angel" seemed to be having some kind of internal debate and finally spoke.

"Actually..." he said.

"Look, this is all very cute and I think the look really suits you," Aventurine interrupted him, folding his arms. "But you still haven’t answered the main question. Who are you and what are you doing in a building owned by the IPC?"

The stranger was visibly annoyed by the abrupt cut-off. He straightened up and although the height difference between the two of them was very little, it suddenly felt as if he were looking down on Aventurine. His gaze became dispassionate and calm, but that calmness sent an unpleasant chill down his spine.

"Actually, I really am an angel," he finished his thought in a completely humorless tone.

Aventurine blinked several times to comprehend. He was expecting excuses, ashamed explanations, even an attempt to escape, but this?

"Yeah, sure, you’re an angel," he said sarcastically with a drawn-out tone of voice, shaking his head. "And I suppose that makes me Saint Peter himself?"

"No," the stranger responded coolly, after giving Aventurine a looking-over. "You are definitely not a saint."

Aventurine snorted. His eyes sparkled with a familiar, mischievous look... if this weirdo was playing the angel, well, he was prepared to play along.

"I agree, I’m a terrible saint," he admitted, with a challenge in his tone, leaning forward slightly. "But maybe you could still explain what a ‘real angel’ is doing in an abandoned church on the outskirts of the city?"

He deliberately emphasized the word "real," drawing it out mockingly. The stranger was clearly offended. His golden eyes narrowed and flashed brighter, and the wings behind his ears suddenly fluffed up, bristling in all directions, making him look like an angry bird. It was unexpectedly... cute. Aventurine immediately checked himself, scowling at his own thought. Why was he even thinking things like that?

The stranger opened his mouth to reply, but Aventurine was no longer listening. In the corner of the hall, directly behind the "angel," something stirred.

At first, it was just a shadow, but it moved unnaturally, writhing and changing shape, morphing from a serpent into a winged creature with disproportionately long limbs, then into something resembling a human figure, but too elongated and distorted. Thick black smoke coiled around it, forming the outline of a monstrous being. In the voids that could pass for eyes, a dim light flickered, and it opened a mouth that looked more like a black hole. The creature seemed to be absorbing the light, leaving an ever-deepening darkness around it. The temperature in the church plummeted.

Aventurine cursed internally. The hallucinations had chosen the worst possible moment to appear, for the second time today.

He took a deep breath, deciding to ignore the vision as he always did, and shifted his gaze back to the "angel." But the hallucinations had other plans for him today. The familiar whisper returned, as if a thousand voices were speaking at once inside his head. But this time it was louder than usual. The whisper seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, making Aventurine’s heart pound. Without realizing it, he clutched his head.

"Are you alright?" the "angel’s" concerned voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance.

The whisper retreated for a moment, startled by the other voice, but soon returned with twice the force. A ringing started in his ears, followed by strange burning in his chest, as the room began to sway. Aventurine grabbed the back of a nearby pew to steady himself. Gritting his teeth and fighting back a wave of nausea, he forced himself to answer.

"Don’t I look it?"

The "angel," whose name Aventurine still didn’t know, looked alarmed. He took a step forward, reaching out a hand to help, but suddenly froze. His gaze slid to where Aventurine had been looking, and his golden eyes widened in recognition. His expression became tense and grim. Stranger was staring directly at the shadow, his focus unwavering. It was impossible. No one had ever seen Aventurine’s hallucinations; they existed only in his tormented mind. So why was this strange man staring directly at a figment of his sick imagination?

Under the "angel’s" intense gaze, the shadow hesitated for a moment but then resumed its relentless approach. The whisper in Aventurine’s head was becoming a painful roar. His ears felt clogged, and his skull seemed about to burst from the pressure. Nevertheless, a new, quite distinct sound managed to filter through the chaos, and this new sound was very much like the far-off ringing of bells.

What happened next was too fast to follow. The shadow lunged, swift as a predator delivering a fatal blow. The "angel" reacted instantly, yanking Aventurine back by the arm. Thrown off balance, Aventurine stumbled, only to be caught and held fast against the "angel's" chest... so close he could feel the other man’s warmth through his clothes. The impulse to either struggle or make a sarcastic remark about their proximity died before it could form. There was no time.

The air filled with the rustle of a thousand feathers. Aventurine froze as he saw enormous, snow-white wings materialize from thin air behind the stranger. They closed around them in a protective cocoon, and in that same instant, the church was shaken by the deafening peal of bells. The sound was so powerful that Aventurine groaned and clamped his hands over his ears. The walls trembled, and the remaining stained-glass windows shattered with a crash, raining down in a shower of colored shards.

For a split second, the entire space was flooded with a blinding light. Aventurine tightly closed his eyes, his legs gave way and only the angel’s kept him from falling.

And then, it was over as suddenly as it had begun. The shadow vanished, the whispers ceased, the bells fell silent. A ringing silence descended upon the church. A roar still echoed in Aventurine's head, and his ears rang as if he had been at the epicenter of an explosion. The floor around them was littered with multicolored shards of glass, the only proof that what had just happened was real.

***

Aventurine was convinced that he had passed out. At least for several seconds... He did not recall ending up on the dusty pew, nor the time when his legs finally gave out. As consciousness continued to come back, he sensed a presence. Someone was very close, too close even. The hairs on his neck stood up, every nerve in his body screaming to react. His muscles got tight, ready to fight - a reflex from the past, deeply embedded in him that he cannot control.

His heart began to pound with enough force to burst from his chest. Aventurine’s eyes shot open, desperate to regain control of the situation. The first thing that came into focus was the angel, or whatever he really was, leaning over him. After the events of the day, Aventurine couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. A roar still echoed in his ears, but it was gradually subsiding, allowing him to focus better. A deep breath in, then out… the panic slowly receded under the pressure of self-control techniques he’d practiced for years.

The angel’s face was ridiculously close which gave him the opportunity to recognize every single facial feature of the angel in great detail. The pale skin without a single flaw, the perfect cheekbones, the straight nose, soft and thin pink lips... It led to a disappointing conclusion: up close, the stranger was even more handsome, which was completely unfair. His eyes were especially striking: golden irises which were shining in the dim light of the church and had unnatural blue-violet pupils that created a charming contrast, one that was physically impossible to look away from. It was irritating to the point of grinding his teeth. Was there really not a single flaw in this man? Not one imperfect feature he could latch onto to stop feeling like a tattered crow next to a bird of heavens?

"You are still alive," the other said in a neutral voice, his penetrating stare still fixed on Aventurine’s face.

"My condolences on that fact," he replied sarcastically.

A tiny crease of worry showed between the angel’s brows. That little wrinkle somehow ignited an even more unwanted irritation in Aventurine. Faces that are so perfect shouldn’t be allowed to frown. For one very brief moment, a completely silly idea crossed his mind... that he should reach out and softly smooth the crease with his thumb. Aventurine hit himself in the head with a mental slap.

"You’re lucky," the angel said once the silence was over, his frown getting deeper. "It’s not common for a person to survive a direct confrontation with a being like that without suffering long-term effects."

The stranger fell silent, his scrutiny unwavering. The proximity was suffocating. All of Aventurine’s instincts screamed at him to pull back, to create a safe distance, but he remained frozen, forcing a mask of nonchalance. He wouldn’t show weakness. He refused to be the first to flinch. This silent battle of wills was a language he understood far better than anything.

But at the same time his mind was in pure chaos: the hallucination in the church, this strange man who might actually be a real angel… He shook his head slightly, chasing away the absurd thoughts. And yet… His gaze slid to the small wings behind the angel’s ears, which moved slightly on their own, and to the strange glow behind his head that resembled a halo. The larger wings he'd seen...or thought he'd seen, were gone, and Aventurine began to doubt his own memory. The very idea of angels existing felt too wild to accept. He looked at the stranger again, struck by a new thought: he still didn't know his name.

​Did angels even have names?

"Sunday," the man said out of the blue, cutting through his thoughts.

"What?" Aventurine blinked, confused. "But it’s Wednesday…"

The angel raised his eyebrows.

"You were just thinking about my name," he clarified, tilting his head slightly. "So, it only felt proper to introduce myself. My name is Sunday."

When the implication of the words finally hit him, Aventurine’s world tilted for a second. A wave of primal fear and fury washed over him. His thoughts were his castle, HIS final refuge. Nobody, NO ONE, was entitled to break into that place without his permission. And he won't let it slide...

Aventurine grinned - the very same grin he used at the poker table just before he dealt his opponent a fatal blow - as he got up from the pew. Sunday instinctively made a move backward, but Aventurine stepped over, going into the angel’s personal space without mercy.

"You can read my mind?" His voice was deceptively soft, like silk.

Sunday stood still, the surprise evident in his golden eyes which grew bigger by a fraction, but he quickly recovered his composure.

"Angels can hear thoughts," he said carefully. "But I never do it on purpose. It’s... just that your thoughts were very loud."

Nausea rose in Aventurine's throat. The thought that someone was rummaging through his mind, discovering his fears, his secrets, and everything else that he was so careful to hide from the rest of the world...

"How very convenient," His voice stayed light but there was an unmistakable undertone of steel in it. "Now you know my name, my weaknesses, all my dirty secrets. An unfair advantage, don’t you think?"

"I was not trying to find that information," Sunday protested, trying to keep his cool.

The smile vanished from Aventurine’s face. He took a step forward, the shards of stained glass crunching under his feet, forcing Sunday to back away until the angel was pressed against the cold stone of the altar.

"I hope you enjoyed the show inside my head?" he leaned in so close their faces were mere millimeters apart. His eyes drilled into the angel. "Or were you disappointed by what you saw?"

"Listen... I apologize if..."

Aventurine pushed himself closer to Sunday’s ear, his scorching breath contrasting against the angel’s icy skin.

"Now listen to me, my dear friend. Get. Out. Of. My. Head." He dangerously pronounced each word with deliberate precision. "I don’t care who you are, even if you are the Creator Himself, I’m not your puppet. My thoughts are mine and mine alone."

He abruptly moved away, noticing with delight that a fissure was visible in Sunday’s impeccable facade... for the first time, real, unpretentious guilt was apparent on the perfect face. And Aventurine was the only cause of it. He slowly re-adjusted his cuffs, going back to the carefree gambler’s mask.

"Never," he said, his voice conveying a threat. "Do you hear me, angel? Never enter my head without permission. And that’s not a request."

Sunday looked at him and his golden eyes reflected sincere remorse.

"I apologize. It was a mistake of mine. And I swear to you, it shall not happen again."

Sunday didn’t raise his eyes but lowered his gaze to the floor and was intensely studying the stone tiles. Aventurine was still frustratingly angry... and he was fully entitled to feel that way. His personal boundaries had been violated in the most intimate way possible. However, something about Sunday’s closed posture and the disarming honesty of his apology had a calming effect on him.

With a heavy sigh, he ran a hand over his face, trying to quell the trembling and pull on his familiar charmer's mask once more.

"Aventurine," he suddenly said.

Sunday looked at him with pure bewilderment.

"I think that’s just a rock," he said pointing at the piece of gravel on the floor between them.

The absurdity of the situation had finally come to his senses and Aventurine could no longer hold back, he let out a hearty laugh that echoed through the empty church. Sunday looked confused.

"No, angel. It's my name," he said between laughs. "You told me yours, now I’m telling you mine. A fair exchange of information. A simple transaction."

Even if Sunday had read his mind and played dirty... Aventurine was not like that. He respected the rules of fair play, although in his own twisted way.

"A transaction?" Sunday frowned.

"Exactly," Aventurine gave a sly smile, bringing back his usual nonchalant attitude. "You give me, and I give you. The foundation of any deal."

Sunday didn't answer, he remained lost, still standing next to the altar.

"Let’s say I buy that you are a real angel," Aventurine abruptly ended the silence. Sunday flinched. "Then explain this: what was that shadow? And don’t say ‘a demon,’ too cliché."

Aventurine looked at Sunday, waiting for a reply. This question kept haunting him for so long. He really wanted to comprehend the reason for his hallucinations.

"You might say that it is so," Sunday replied cautiously. "But... it's much more complicated than that."

"Huh, how convenient," Aventurine mocked. "A typical non-answer."

Sunday did not speak, and Aventurine clicked his tongue in irritation. He was not satisfied with vague answers.

"You need to leave," the angel said all of a sudden, straightening up. "That entity may come back. It's dangerous for you to stay here."

"I won't go away empty-handed," Aventurine crossed his arms. "Leaving a game with a loss is against my rules."

Sunday grew visibly tense. He made no further attempt to conceal his displeasure.

"This isn’t a game!" For the first time, frustration crept into Sunday’s voice. "That entity is a serious threat. You don’t want to come across it again."

"I'm pretty lucky," responded Aventurine in a laid-back tone."I'm willing to risk it."

Sunday stared at him with a mixture of undisguised bewilderment and outrage.

"I need answers," Aventurine went on. "I suggest we make a deal: you answer me, and then I leave here."

"Are you serious? Are you willing to die for information you won't even believe?"

"Why not?" he grinned. "It will be an unforgettable evening, with an unusual company."

After a long, studying gaze, Sunday sighed heavily, admitting defeat.

"Very well. If we agree to leave immediately, I will escort you to the city and answer your questions. Do we have an agreement? "

Aventurine pretended to mull the matter over, stroking his chin.

"Okay, it’s a deal," he eventually declared. "But let's be clear, angel: I don't tolerate cheaters."

He turned to the door and was on his way, feeling Sunday's gaze on his back. A familiar thrill ignited inside him, the anticipation of a new game. Angels, demons, humans... You could negotiate with anyone if you found the right pressure points. And this deal... well, perhaps it would be his best investment yet.

Chapter Text

If he had to summarize this day in one word, it would be a "disaster". It had been a persistent word in the back of Sunday's mind at least since the sun surpassed its zenith, and by the end of the day, it had become a tiresome refrain*.

From the morning onward, everything spiraled out of control: his search reached a dead end, holding no useful leads, curious passersby pestered him with questions, his clothes were itchy in all sorts of wrong places, and by sunset, he was so exhausted that he could barely stand by the time he made his way to the church.

The final chord of this disastrous day could very well be the rescue of one reckless mortal who seemed to have no regard for his own life.

For a brief moment he could feel the first wave of fatigue returning. A slight dizziness indicated to him that he might have overestimated his strength – reminding him yet again of the earthly vessel’s imperfection. He leaned against the cold wall to steady himself, shaking his head to clear the colorful spots dancing in his vision. All of it was so… inconvenient.

He was ashamed to admit he’d been caught completely off guard. It was gnawing at him. There had been no warning of the attack, no sense of their presence before it was too late. The mere thought of it made his chest tighten. Sunday should have sensed the danger. It was his divine duty… and he had nearly failed.

Too slow. Just one second later and…

He clenched his fists so tightly that the nails dug into the flesh of his palm, carving crimson crescents in the fragile skin. It hurt, but he deserved it. He had all but allowed the unthinkable to happen. If only he hadn't been so slow and… incompetent. If only he…

An image of his Master appeared before his eyes, condemnation clear in his gaze. He was disappointed in him. Sunday felt a wave of nausea.

It was his fault.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his ragged breathing and push away the anxious thoughts. He couldn't fixate on the past now; he had to banish the ghosts and return to the present. Everything could have an explanation, he just needed to calmly analyze the situation, and even this mystery could be solved.

But no matter which angle he viewed the events from, he couldn't shake the foreboding sense that every note in this chaotic symphony revolved around a single variable.

He opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to Aventurine, who was intently studying one of the ancient tombstones in the church graveyard. From time to time, he would cast a quick, impatient glance at Sunday, as if they were old acquaintances out for a stroll, and not an angel and a human who had just miraculously escaped death.

"Are you coming? Or are you going to keep pretending to be a holy statue?"

Aventurine's voice was as mocking and playful as ever. This audacity and nonchalance threw Sunday off balance - it defied everything he thought he knew about humanity. The books from the Family’s library - the very ones that he and Robin had read to pieces in their youth - described mortals as fragile, meek, and in constant need of heavenly providence and salvation. But Aventurine was nothing of the sort. He wasn't even a benevolent fairy-tale character, if anything, Aventurine was a villain, the kind that brought chaos into the ordered world of heroes.

"My apologies for the delay," Sunday said, dragged back into reality.

Aventurine’s gaze was a little too intense, sending a chill down his spine. It felt as though he might know something that Sunday himself didn't.

"Angel," he said finally and Sunday willed himself not to flinch. "Let's go. I'd like to reach the city before winter sets in, you know."

And with that, Aventurine readjusted his dark jacket on his shoulders, its gold lining and cufflinks shining dully in the last rays of the sunset. He turned away without looking back and walked at a steady pace toward the end of the yard, humming a quirky little tune under his breath.

He pushed himself off the wall, grimacing at the fine stone dust now coating his fingertips. Sunday felt the urge to scrub this dirt away, to rip his skin off with his nails, just to find relief from the itch that felt like it was just below the surface. Sunday tried his best to suppress the obsessive impulse. Instead, he straightened up and followed the mortal, attempting to put as much lightness and grace into movement as possible.

Aventurine was already at the rusty opening of the gates, leaning against the back of one of the doors, watching Sunday as if expecting him to hurry up. Sunday let out a weary sigh, resigning himself to a full spectrum of emotions. There was irritation, anxiety, curiosity - all of it tangled together into a giant knot of conflicting emotions, laying somewhere deep in his chest. How fitting it was for an angel to feel that way. Sunday didn't know, and he could only hope the Heavens would forgive him for it.

Every step forward was a struggle, and there wasn't even a wall to hold onto. But he felt the eyes on him, and that was enough not to fall flat on the broken tiles of the churchyard. Meanwhile, Aventurine continued to move toward the road where a vague dark shape loomed in the gathering shadows.

Sunday stopped and looked back at the church one last time; its spires black against the backdrop of the fading day. Were they scolding him for abandoning his mission, on which more than one fate depended, for the sake of a mere mortal's whim? Or were they rejoicing that he might be on the path to a possible solution? Sunday couldn't say for sure, but his choice had already been made and there was no turning back. He wearily adjusted the belt of his cassock and followed Aventurine, hoping only that this short journey would not completely knock him off his path.

***

When Sunday finally reached what turned out to be a vehicle, he felt his feet root themselves to the asphalt, unable to take another step. The car was the kind that made one want to turn around and walk away, pride be damned. It was low-slung and predatory, with streamlined shapes that screamed speed just by their appearance. The black lacquered surface absorbed the last drops of light in the rapidly darkening twilight, making the car look more like a dark blot on wheels.

He looked up at Aventurine, who was standing by the driver's seat, leaning on the roof. It seemed that he finally took off the glasses he had been wearing all this time, their eyes met and the whole world froze for a moment.

He had seen those eyes before... 

The memory faded like a dream upon waking, leaving only an echo, barely perceptible but disconcertingly similar, to déjà vu. Perhaps it was the books that Master Wood gave him to read when he was still a fledgling; they were completely incomprehensible to him at the time, written in complex language, though he remembered there being pictures. They were faded, almost completely worn away in places.

Sunday couldn't remember everything, but he remembered the awe he felt when he flipped through those pages under the Master's strict supervision.

Magenta and cyan... but none of it made sense.

Sunday was lost in thought, far away in the depths of his mind. Apparently, his silence had been prolonged for too long, because at this moment Aventurine began tapping his fingers impatiently on the roof of the car while staring at him. Sunday unconsciously looked down at Aventurine's hands, which were covered by black gloves, and each finger was adorned with all sorts of rings that captured his attention and pulled him back into reality.

His hands had begun itching again… he would give anything to get his gloves back.

"Is there a problem?" Aventurine asked, arching an eyebrow.

Sunday looked down, concentrating on a small stone beneath the tire of the car. He didn't even know where to start to explain all of his problems.

"…Are we riding in that?" he finally forced out, crossing his arms and casting a deliberate glance at the vehicle. He couldn't bring himself to say the word "car," firmly convinced that if he denied its existence, it would disappear.

“Were you expecting a golden carriage with pegasi?” Aventurine snorted and took out the keys, skillfully twirling them on his finger. "We have an hour or so to drive to the city. Or did you expect us to walk? Although, I do admit, that might be fun in its own right."

Sunday followed the spinning keys with his eyes, then slowly shook his head. He hadn't just been thinking that... he had been praying for it, wishing it with every fiber of his being. When Robin returned from her first mission, chirping with excitement and joy, she had told him countless stories over the next few weeks, many of which mentioned cars. It was exhilarating hearing her stories, but never made him want to try it. No matter how hard his sister tried to convince him it was “just delightful!” or “kind of like flying on the ground” his opinion was firm, and he was still very skeptical.

He gave the car one more serious look, and it did nothing to build his confidence. In fact, it had the opposite effect.

"Don't tell me angels are afraid of riding in cars," Aventurine said with the mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

Sunday looked at him with the coldest of glares he could manage, hoping that his body language made it crystal clear that he was offended by the mere implication. Even if Aventurine was sort of right... he would never give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

"I am not afraid," he said, trying to sound convincing.

Aventurine squinted, a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he could read the truths written in the margins of Sunday's soul.

"Of course not," he said, opening the driver's door. "Then get in. Let's go."

A sudden phrase was on the tip of his tongue that would have made the feathers on Master Wood's wings stand on end, but Sunday restrained himself. That was beneath him. Instead, he walked around the car with dignity, and carefully lowered himself into the passenger seat, trying not to touch anything around him.

The car's interior greeted him with an unexpected cleanliness and order. The soft, dark chocolate leather was cool to the touch, while polished wood panels and chrome details created a striking balance between warm and cool tones. This place exuded wealth, reflecting the essence of its owner. 

But what drew Sunday in the most was the scent.

It enveloped the entire cabin, hanging invisibly in the air, seeming to come from every surface and creating an atmosphere of security and comfort. It was a complex composition of woody notes of sandalwood and cedar, intertwined with the sharp spice of black pepper and cardamom, with a finishing touch of the barely perceptible sweetness of amber. Sunday found himself breathing deeper, trying to capture every nuance of the complex bouquet of aromas around him.

Apparently, it was Aventurine's cologne. And he... liked it.

No. Sunday shot upright, trying to stop breathing, though he wasn't very successful. It was all just the imperfections of his mortal body – Sunday was absolutely sure of it – catching him once again at the most inopportune moment. Nothing more.

Aventurine was just too close, his presence seemed to overtake the whole space, and the scent of his cologne, which was pleasing only moments ago, was now nauseatingly sweet, making the atmosphere far too intimate. He urgently needed to clear his head, but Sunday couldn't remember which exact button lowered the window, and he didn't dare touch the levers that were unfamiliar to him. To distract himself even a little, he did the one thing he knew how to do and carefully fastened his seatbelt, trying to move as cautiously as possible as not to touch anything else.

Aventurine turned the key, and the engine awoke with a low purr. A wave of vibration passed through the entire car, and Sunday felt it through his whole body: from his feet, up his entire spine, all the way to the tips of his feathers. His fingers gripped the armrests. Well, it was already too late to flee, so he simply tried to relax a little, forcing himself not to think about what will happen next.

"So.… is it comfortable?" suddenly asked Aventurine, tapping his ring-adorned finger on the steering wheel.

"It's... tolerable," Sunday replied, not even bothering to turn his head.

To distract himself, he gazed out the window at the treetops, appearing as dark frames in the distance where the church was.

"Oh, perfect," Aventurine said, effortlessly turning the wheel to merge onto the road. "But I should warn you, angel... I drive like I gamble."

"Wh..."

He turned his head sharply, breaking away from his contemplation of the dark landscapes outside the window, and opened his mouth to ask what exactly Aventurine meant, but then changed his mind, his fingers instinctively clutching the seatbelt. He had a bad feeling.    

"Oh, but don't worry. While I am a professional at wagering my own life, as far as someone else's...," he winked at Sunday, his eyes twinkling with mischief in the darkness, "...I'll try to keep it safe for once."

***

Sunday would never forget his first flight.

He was merely a fledgling then, and he and Robin would spend hours gazing at the sky, watching the birds in their flight. He would often entertain himself with thoughts of soaring along with the birds, for only in the air could angels, like birds, experience true freedom. How amazing it must have felt to be lifted off the ground by powerful wings that raised you higher and higher, and made you feel feather light, with the whole world at your fingertips.

But angel fledglings were forbidden to soar into the sky – it was a dangerous and unpredictable place, where the wind could shift at any moment, and they were weak, their wings had not yet fully strengthened.

"The rules are absolute, and the sky is unforgiving, punishing those who are unworthy."

This is what Gopher Wood, their guardian, repeated over and over, making them memorize it like a prayer. But if Sunday were to be honest (and he always wanted to be honest!) he couldn't wait to try.

On that fateful day, he and Robin had wandered into the farthest part of the garden, where all rarest kinds of earthly flowers grew, when they heard a sad-sounding chirp from somewhere nearby. It came from a very small charmony dove that was flapping about helplessly in the grass. Directly above it, on the highest branch, unreachable for a child's hands, was a nest.

He remembered offering to help. And the way Robin looked at him with wide eyes, filled with both admiration and concern; He remembered spreading his snow-white wings for the first time, on which fledgling down was still visible here and there; He recalled how he began to flap those wings, lifting off the ground.

But, at that moment, he didn’t feel anything that resembled freedom. No. Only fear.

Caught by a strong gust of wind, Sunday faltered, losing control; he hung in the air for a moment longer, trying desperately to steady himself, but it was not enough. He was not strong enough… and he fell. The landing was painful enough to draw tears to his eyes, and the impact almost split his halo in half.

The sky had rejected him.

The charmony dove remained on the ground, just like him... too weak, unable to help anyone. And Robin... he remembered how she hugged him and cried. Cried because of him. His flight had lasted no more than a few seconds, yet it had already brought so much grief to those dearest to him.

Master Gopher Wood, as usual, was completely right...

He was unworthy of the sky.

And Sunday never changed his mind. Even much later, when he became an adult, and his flight was impeccable and graceful, he still preferred the solid ground under his feet. For him, wings were anything but an instrument of freedom.

"Hey, angel, did you fall asleep, or what? We arrived like five minutes ago."

Sunday flinched. Aventurine's voice brought him back to reality, pulling him from the shameful memories he would have preferred to forget.

"You look a bit pale," Aventurine said, casually adjusting the rearview mirror. "Relax."

Only then did Sunday realize that he was still sitting there, eyes squeezed shut, with his body pressed into the seat, and his fingers wrapped around the seatbelt in a death grip. His bad feeling had served him correctly: Aventurine's driving was atrocious.

He started to feel sick halfway through the ride. The headache he'd had since this morning was now twice as bad. He stared at Aventurine for a moment, truly baffled as to how this man had made it to that age.

"Seven," Sunday finally managed, his voice tight. He tried to hide it, but inside he was burning with righteous anger.

"Seven?" Aventurine raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely interested, and tapped his chin. "Hmm, did you just come up with some kind of angel code, or did you somehow count my deadly sins?"

Sunday's wings still trembled from the thrilling ride, the road replaying behind his eyes in a dizzying reel – much like the life mortals supposedly witness in the second before their death. He caught himself several times with the alarming thought that this was all too reminiscent of flying, which made him shrink even further into his seat. It was the same illusion of freedom and weightlessness that could end in disaster at any moment.

Sunday finally turned towards him, trying to convey the full force of his displeasure with just a single look. "Seven times you ignored the speed limit sign. Five of those times we were going more than double the speed limit and three times you overtook using the oncoming lane in a prohibited area."

Once, during the ride, he made the fatal mistake of questioning the speedometer – then immediately tore his gaze away from it to stare directly at the horizon with every prayer to Order and Harmony he knew running through his head – the needle was stuck past the red and around the two-hundred mark.

Aventurine's lips curled into a smug smile. "Oh, so you were watching the road after all. And here I was, picturing you praying with your eyes closed," He couldn't hide the humor in his voice. "But I'll admit, I didn't expect angels to study traffic laws."

"For your information," Sunday said, adopting the same polite, distant tone he reserved for tedious Family meetings. The mortal's assumption of his incompetence cut deeper than he wanted to admit, "angels undergo a full course of training before making contact with the mortal realm. And following the rules is the foundation of any successful mission."

Aventurine simply shrugged, switching the engine off. "Hey, as a friend of mine once said – rules are made to be broken." 

Sunday simply took a deep breath, cautiously releasing the seatbelt. He didn't know if any sudden movements could start this hellish machine up again (and the rational part of his brain told him that was foolish), but he preferred not to test it.

"Still, you drive like a mortal… who actually wants to die," he said quietly, peering at Aventurine and selecting his words carefully.

Aventurine was about to get out, but he paused for a moment, letting out a short, barking laugh.

"Well, thanks for the compliment," he said, swinging the driver's door open in one smooth motion, but before he slid out, he turned back and winked "Relax, angel. We're still alive, aren't we? And that, you have to admit, is pretty lucky."

Sunday wanted to say something, but Aventurine had already gotten out of the car and was now stretching with pleasure outside, loosening his stiff muscles. The tailored dark suit fit him impeccably, hugging his frame so beautifully that Sunday found himself staring for longer than was proper.

A wave of heat rose to his cheeks, his ears, and he swore it even reached the tips of his wings. His eyes darted nervously around the car's interior, searching for somewhere to land, when he caught his own reflection in the rearview mirror. He froze in horror at what he saw.

His reflection was appallingly unpresentable. His small wings were fluffed in total disarray, and the feathers were tangled, sticking out in all wrong directions. His face was paler than usual, if that was even possible, with deep shadows visible underneath his eyes. And, as if the horror of his appearance could be topped off any worse than it already was, there was a single loose thread, sticking out from the sleeve of his dusty cassock.

Sunday frantically began to tidy himself up, desperately trying to smooth the ruffled feathers near his head with trembling fingers. But his wings still wouldn't obey, twitching nervously under his hands; at one point, he even grabbed them in an attempt to calm them down, but that only made it worse. Sunday let out a quiet groan and switched his focus to his clothes, tucking in the loose thread on his cuff, adjusting, and straightening his collar as well as smoothing out imaginary wrinkles on the rough fabric.

Aventurine had disappeared somewhere. Apparently, he had grown tired of waiting and decided to head toward the building flashing with colorful lights outside the car window. Sunday thought he probably should have followed him, but he just couldn't bring himself to. He couldn't allow himself to be seen in such a state of disarray. It was simply unbefitting of his status.

For a few more long seconds, he stubbornly battled with his appearance but eventually gave up. At any rate, his appearance no longer screamed "disaster" and was now relatively acceptable. Sunday scrutinized himself in the mirror one last time and reached for the door, just as it swung open on its own.

He flinched and looked up in surprise to find Aventurine before him, elegantly bent in a half-bow, offering him a hand in a black glove.

"Allow me to assist you, Your Angelic Majesty," he said with mischievous gallantry.

 His gaze darted to the outstretched hand, then slid to Aventurine's face, who had a devilish glint in his eyes. Sunday knew the reason, and he didn't like it at all.

He gave Aventurine a long, measuring look. "I know how to open doors," he finally said, trying to preserve the remnants of his pride. "There is no need for this."

"Oh, I know," Aventurine said, just as courteously as before, but he didn't retract his hand. "And yet, I can't pass up my chance to attend to such an elegant companion."

Then he winked, and Sunday was completely lost. He understood the nature of this "game". He recognized it for the pathetic provocation it was – a composition designed for failure, where any note he played would lead to the same, single cadence**. The rational part of his brain screamed the only correct solution: Sunday should have coldly rejected Aventurine, fixing him with a proud glare before exiting the car on his own, dignity intact. It was the right thing to do. It was expected of him.

And yet...

"You're absolutely impossible," Sunday breathed out quietly.

...why did he so desperately want to play his part in this silly spectacle?

Sunday slowly extended his hand, fingertips barely brushing the other's palm, like the heroines in his favorite tellurian novels, the ones he secretly read in the Family's library (something he would never, ever admit to). He rose gracefully from his seat, his gaze locked on Aventurine's face, meeting those impossible, multicolored eyes. He was ready for the inevitable loss, yet desired to see his part through to the end.

Aventurine squeezed his fingers lightly, and a jolt of electricity shot through Sunday's entire body, seeming to course straight to his heart and pound out a frantic rhythm. A wave of embarrassment – no, more like shame – washed over him for such an unbecoming reaction from his own earthly vessel. Sunday desperately tried to regain control, but his body simply wouldn't obey.

He had to remain composed... he couldn't give Aventurine the satisfaction of witnessing his uncontrolled reaction.

"You know." Aventurine chuckled, helping Sunday out of the car. "I'd wager that beneath that stern, angelic facade, you're a hopeless romantic."

Sunday felt the heat rise to his face, now impossibly hot and even the crisp coolness of autumn air did little to relieve it.

"Nonsense. That's not true at all."

"Of course," Aventurine slowly released Sunday’s hand, but his fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary. "My bad."

Sunday wanted to protest and tell him that all of the guesses that Aventurine made were pure fiction, far from the truth. But he didn't even have a moment to form a word before everything blurred before his eyes, turning the building across the street into a stain of colors. The ground started to flee from under his feet, and Sunday grabbed the roof of the car for balance. Static roared in his ears, quickly replaced with the sound of ringing silence. The transition had been so quick that, for a moment, it was like the whole world had simply blinked out of existence in an instant. And then – nothing. Only a strange, all-consuming emptiness…

It lasted only a moment that felt like an eternity, and then it ended as quickly as it began, leaving only a pounding headache and a profound fatigue.

The nearly endless smirk faded from Aventurine's face. "Hey, you alright?"

Sunday closed his eyes for a second, regaining his balance, although his legs were still treacherously shaking. "I'm fine," he said, straightening up, stubbornly refusing to admit to the mortal (or even to himself) that he might be a little tired.

He began to diligently smooth the folds on the sleeve of his cassock – a completely pointless endeavor, but, at least, it helped him to distract himself from the feeling of a piercing stare that Sunday felt with every cell of his body. Aventurine was apparently appraising him, downright judging him for the weakness he had shown. He braced himself to hear all sorts of spiteful comments and barbs, as well as a huge number of questions to which he himself had not yet found answers, but none of that ever followed.

Aventurine just sighed shortly, shifting his gaze to the building, which sparkled invitingly by the road, situated between the two dark silhouettes of the neighboring houses.

"Alright, angel, let's go before they close."

Sunday blinked, confused. Had he completely misread Aventurine? Or was he saving all of his comments for later, when Sunday could least expect it? He couldn't know for sure, but for now, he was just grateful for the silence.

***

Aventurine stopped halfway to the entrance and turned back, scanning the area for his unusual companion. He finally found him next to a railing that was wrapped with fairy lights. Sunday was frozen in place, leaning against it, breathlessly staring at the twinkling lights. Aventurine was ready to make a smart remark about how slow the angel was, but the childlike wonder shining in Sunday's eyes made the comment die on his lips.

He just… couldn't.

Aventurine froze and decided he would be content being just a bystander, observing as the angel carefully stretched a hand out, almost touching the little bulbs with his fingertips, while reflections of the lights danced in his golden eyes.

Angel must have sensed the intensity of the gaze on him, because he immediately stiffened and turned sharply. His wings twitched in embarrassment, and moved rapidly, as if they were trying to cover his face, but froze halfway. Sunday nervously fiddled with the folds of his cassock, haltingly put away the errant bit of silver hair, resuming his perfect posture.

"What is this place?" Sunday suddenly asked, all trace of wonder gone from his eyes.

"Just a café," Aventurine replied with a shrug. "I have no idea if the food is any good, but they at least claim to have decent coffee."

And just like that, the magic of the moment was lost…

Sunday shifted his focus to the building in front of them and Aventurine followed his gaze. The café was in the outskirts of the city, humbly sandwiched between an old bookstore and a flower shop. It probably had a patio in the summer, but with winter approaching, all the tables had been brought inside, and wicker chairs were stacked neatly against the wall at the far end. The building, by no means, was luxurious or decorated: it was only sprinkled with little fairy lights and a few street lamps, here and there, wrapped in ivy and pine branches.

The warm glow from the small windows spilled onto the skeletal branches of the trees outside. Inside, the room appeared to have dozens of small wooden tables with matching wooden chairs, and on top of the tables were ceramic vases with flowers in them. Aventurine even noticed few customers: there were two people at the counter who seemed to be having a conversation, and a person at the window table who was leisurely drinking a hot drink. The smell of ground coffee blended with hot baked goods came from the open window.

"Alright, but why are we here?" Sunday looked directly at Aventurine with thoughtful expression. His molten gold eyes sparkled with the reflection of the streetlamps.

"And what else does one do at a café, angel?" Aventurine chuckled. "Well, people come to cafés to eat, drink something hot and, can you imagine this, enjoy each other's company. I know, revolutionary."

"I understand exactly what a café is," Sunday said flatly. "I just don’t understand why we are here. We could have simply dealt with our agreement without all of this extra…"

The angel hesitated, searching for the word, but Aventurine beat him to it.

"Detours?" he suggested while tilting his head slightly. "Listen angel, I just thought that after all shit that's been happening, you could use a little rest. I mean, I am not a villain, although I might seem like one at first."

"What? I'm not…" Sunday blinked, taken off guard for a second, then shook his head. "If you're alluding to me, that is an inaccurate conclusion. Angels do not require mortal food… or rest. Our physical forms are the temporary vessels which…"

"Are not so different from humans?" Aventurine interrupted. "Resist all you want, angel - you look like hell, like you're going to collapse any second... you know, just an observation."

Sunday said nothing, staring somewhere off into the distance, avoiding direct contact. Well, it seemed Aventurine had hit the nail on the head.

"You're not going to change your mind, are you?" the angel finally spoke, but there was no exasperation or accusation in his tone, just fatigue.

"You catch on quick," Aventurine said, warmer this time.

He walked up the narrow wooden stairs, that squeaked delightfully under his weight, but right before he stepped inside, he looked back to see if the angel was following. Sunday had stayed right behind him, at a respectful distance, like he was afraid to breach an invisible bubble of personal space. In fact, he had stopped a good distance back and had simply waited patiently for Aventurine to walk through the front door first.

The warm light of the café framed the angel's figure, turning him into a living icon pulled from the ancient frescoes of old chapels. From this distance, Aventurine could once again make out the barely perceptible iridescent haze he had first noticed in the church. The farther the angel was, the more noticeable the shining became, shimmering strangely and in constant motion, distorting the angel's silhouette and the air around him like a mirage in a scorching desert.

Aventurine held his breath for a moment, unable to look away. It felt as if by blinking, the angel would vanish like a ghost dissolving into a cold autumn night. An inner voice chastised him, informing him it was a cruel trick of his brain; an ideal illusion built to fill the void within him. It reminded him that angels never existed, that this was all a deception, all too good to be his reality, that, finally, he had gone mad and was talking to some phantom of his imagination.

Yet no matter how many times Aventurine shut his eyes, when he opened them, Sunday remained, slightly frowning, staring directly into him. So tangible and real, yet at the same time, foreign to this world. Aventurine shook his head, chasing away the waking dream, and with a short exhale, pushed the café door open.

***

They ordered the table furthest from the main hall, in the corner, away from prying eyes. Sunday apologized almost immediately and excused himself to the restroom, saying he needed to wash his hands. Aventurine was left alone, and to pass the time, he began to examine the interior of the establishment. The restaurant was cozy, but nothing special: the walls were decorated with various paintings depicting autumn landscapes – old parks, faded foliage, or misty lakes; low ceilings with lamps hanging over each table, the light specially chosen to be dim and soft. Each table featured a handmade ceramic vase with wildflowers... which upon inspection, turned out to be fake. The place smelled like coffee, croissants, freshly baked vanilla and cinnamon buns, and some other thing... maybe apples.

However, Aventurine quickly grew tired of looking at the interior. After one last bored glance around the room, he leaned back in his chair and fished out his favorite poker chip. Its weight felt familiar in his hand as it danced between his fingers, chips’ polished face reflecting the light underneath the lamp. He sat like that for several minutes, but despite all his effort to distract himself, his thoughts kept coming back to Sunday. Five minutes had gone by... and the angel still hadn’t come back. Aventurine frowned.

Surely, he couldn't have possibly got lost on the way to the sink... could he?

Or perhaps... the angel had already written him off completely, and shot himself through some kind of heavenly portal, leaving him sitting here waiting like some complete idiot?

With Sunday's absence dragging on and on, Aventurine started to think about going to check, partly to tease him, partly to calm his own nagging paranoia. He shook his head. No. He'd let the angel play the part of holy prude just a little while longer, after all, he knew how to wait.

Another five agonizingly long minutes passed before Sunday finally decided to appear. He walked silently to the table and, with a grace unique only to him, sank into the opposite chair. Aventurine watched him closely, and again thought to himself that the angel stuck out too much in the bland surroundings. And that didn't quite sync with the fact that... If he was being honest, this whole time he thought he would have to endure awkward questions or at least curious stares from the other customers... but to his surprise, no one had barely looked in their direction – and the sparse patrons, eating, all appeared to be utterly absorbed in their own conversations. It was conveniently easy and a tad unsettling, but he decided he would close his eyes to it for now, and focus on the upcoming performance.

" And here I was, thinking you'd decided to run away," he said playfully while deftly flipping the chip in the air and catching it back in his pocket.

"As you can see, I do not break my agreements," Sunday replied coldly, his golden eyes flashing. "I was merely… making myself presentable."

"O-o-f course," Aventurine drawled while sizing him up. "Whatever you say."

And indeed, Sunday had clearly put the time to good use. His robes had lost a significant layer of road dust but still looked absolutely terrible. His hands, once pale and slender, were now an angry red – swollen and raw, as if he'd scoured them with sandpaper. The once charmingly disheveled feathers now lay impeccably, one atop the other, save for a few stubborn ones that still strayed from the rest. But what drew Aventurine's attention the most were the two golden studs piercing the left wing. They glinted against the pearly-white feathers like two small stars. A rather unexpected choice for a creature like Sunday. Aventurine felt his curiosity itch… he wondered what secrets were behind them.

His thoughts were interrupted by the waitress who approached their table - a young girl with a pad and an appropriately professional smile at the ready:

“Welcome! Have you made your selections, or do you need some time to decide?”

Oh, right...

“We haven't selected anything yet,” Aventurine replied politely.

“Okay. Just let us know when you are ready,” the girl said with a nod, but before she walked away, her eyes strangely lingered on Sunday, which did not go unnoticed by the sharp gaze of Aventurine. It was odd. But that was something he would concern himself with later, for now... Aventurine shoved the menu toward the angel, pointedly tapping the leather cover with his index finger.

“Don't be shy, pick whatever you like.”

His own menu remained untouched in front of him; Aventurine didn't even bother to open it, too absorbed in the spectacle unfolding before his eyes. Sunday approached the task of ordering with the seriousness of a cryptographer deciphering the folios of long-lost civilizations: brows furrowed, eyes going back and forth, reading line after line, in utter confusion.

“There's so much here,” Sunday said, carefully turning the next page. “What is 'Taste of Autumn?' I didn't know the seasons had taste...”

Aventurine suppressed a chuckle and, leaning forward, snatched the menu from his delicate angelic fingers. Sunday didn’t even have time to look deeply dissatisfied in this abrupt action, as Aventurine, with the businesslike manner of an experienced regular, opened the menu to the first page he could find.

“Let's make this easier for you,” he said, like Sunday was not about to faint just looking at the menu, turning the next page, and pretending to examine all the food selections. “Sweet or savory? What do you feel more like?”

“I...”

By the looks of it, Sunday was completely dazed. He wanted to say something, but, apparently, changed his mind, looking at him like Aventurine had just grown a second head. Then he shifted his eyes to the perfectly folded napkin lying on the plate right in front of him, and grimaced. Out of the corner of his eye, Aventurine, with amusement, noticed how Sunday carefully adjusted the napkin, which was already lying perfectly centered, then neatly clasped his hands on the table, continuing his original thought.

"I already told you, angels do not eat... at least, not in the same way that mortals do."

"A curious way of saying you don't know," said Aventurine with a nonchalant wave of his hand, ignoring everything he had just heard. "So, you're saying you don't have any preferences at all?"

The angel gave him a look, but Aventurine simply gave a nonchalant shrug in response. He had a plan, and he already knew what he intended to do next, but he couldn't deny himself the guilty pleasure of teasing the angel just a little bit longer, indulging in this small game. Well, at least for some time, because unfortunately, all good things come to an end, and the stage was already set for his next move.

Aventurine flashed the angel his best smile, and then raised his hand to get the waitress's attention. She immediately rushed to their table.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Oh yes, definitely," Aventurine said, with certainty. "We'll have one of everything.

The girl slowly blinked, clearly thinking she had misheard.

"I'm sorry... one of everything?"

"One of everything on the menu, of course," he confirmed, simply handing her the leather-bound menu back. "You see, it's a special night for us."

He didn't even look toward the angel as he continued to chat pleasantly with the stunned waitress, but he could have sworn he felt that heavy, penetrating stare on him, in full detail imagining the angel's golden eyes going wide, his shoulders tense under his dusty cassock, and his elegantly intertwined fingers clenching even tighter.

When the waitress finally moved past her shock, she responded with an "okay" while feverishly writing on her pad and making a dash for the kitchen, mumbling something about warning the chef. But that spectacle paled in comparison to what was unfolding right in front of him...

Aventurine couldn't even begin to describe the sheer pleasure he felt when his scheme finally came into fruition. Sunday looked exactly how he had envisioned: feathers all puffed up, eyes wide open, fingers circling the edge of the table, and a faint blush was creeping up his neck... well, okay, Aventurine hadn't expected that last part at all. The angel opened and closed his mouth, looking at him, completely speechless.

"Y-you can't be serious, right?" the angel finally stammered out. "This is... far too much!

"And why not?" Aventurine ran his fingers along the rim of the ceramic flower vase. "You've never experienced any of this... think of it as an investment in new experiences."

"It's still something you shouldn't..."

Aventurine didn't let Sunday finish, no matter how honorable his next words might have been.

"Oh, come on! It's all for you, angel." Aventurine playfully winked. "Maybe I just want to spoil you? I don't get to travel with someone so fascinating every day."

Sunday didn't respond to it. He just sighed heavily in defeat, stopping mid-sentence.

***

Aventurine leaned back in his chair, watching the angel with unhidden relish.

Sunday froze in the chair opposite him, looking a little lost, as his eyes roamed anxiously over the sea of dishes that had taken over their table... and also the second table that the helpful waiters had dragged over when the first overflowed, along with another trolley cart to boot. The table seemed to creak and groan with the abundance of plates featuring the most beautiful desserts, scented meat dishes, and glimmering golden pastries; Sunday sat in the very middle of that splendor and looked like he couldn't even move, his hands stiffly clasped in his lap, not daring to touch the food.

"Still not tempted, angel?" Aventurine nearly purred as he absorbed every nuance of Sunday's features looking for any sign of emotion angel tried so hard to hide.

One had to give it to him though, Sunday had a magnificent grip on himself, and only his restless wings gave away signs of his feelings. He was still so annoyingly perfect it was sickening.

Sunday's delicate lips had pressed into a thin line in a reaction to the provocation, and the left wing gave a quiver. 

"I already told you," he tried hide a hint of irritation beneath the usual stoic mask, "angels do not require food. All of this... is unnecessary."

"Aw, come on." Aventurine leaned forward, elbows on the table, the same devilish grin on his face. "My dear friend, you're in the mortal world now, and by all appearances, stuck in a very mortal body. And we mortal beings have our needs, whether you like it or not."

Aventurine surveyed the enormous expanse of food upon the table with no particular care, and then, slowly, with only his fingertips, he grazed the porcelain plate with a golden rim, upon which rested, seductively, a slice of the delicate strawberry cheesecake, flush with cream and sweet berries.

Sunday glanced at the cheesecake, then back at Aventurine. He studied Aventurine for a moment, recognizing something, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

He squinted with suspicion. "Are you playing another one of your 'games'?"

"Maybe," Aventurine casually agreed. "But you wouldn't give up that easily, would you? Amuse me."

His gaze remained sharp, looking for any sign of weakness in the perfect facade. Oh, how he longed for this moment - for that beautiful mask to crack, just like it did in the church - for it to reveal something real and human that lay beneath it.

In response, Sunday let out a barely audible exhale that was almost obscured in the bustling café. Angel looked at him with that same celestial gaze. His eyes burned with liquid gold, and Aventurine found himself wondering if he would ever clearly understand what angel was really thinking.

Sunday moved his arm slowly across the table, attempting to move closer to the cheesecake. Suddenly, right before he nearly touched it, he pulled his hand back, abruptly jumping back as if he had been burned.

Stubborn. A beautiful and proud, but so stubborn…

Aventurine felt that familiar thrill ignite in his chest. He speared a piece of cheesecake with his fork and held it out across the table. The silken dessert hovered temptingly between them, its glazed surface shimmering in the soft lamplight. A smile spread across Aventurine's lips. He waited.

"Just try it," he purred, his voice deepening to a velvety low tenor. "Don't be so stubborn, angel, it doesn't suit you at all..."

Sunday slowly moved his gaze from the fork to Aventurine's face, thinking about something, as if weighing every possible outcome. Aventurine thought to himself that it was like Sunday was counting the squares, calculating steps in a chess game ten moves ahead.

The silence dragged on for a while. And then eventually, Sunday narrowed his eyes suspiciously, having decided something in his mind. Aventurine was ready to bet that pride would still win and the angel would refuse, with his characteristic coldness, that he would reject this obvious provocation, gracefully and dignifiedly escaping from the trap set before him... only to fall into another, even more sophisticated one, which the angel didn’t even suspect yet.

And Aventurine wasn't going to lie if he said he wasn't intrigued.

But then... well… everything didn’t go according to plan.

And then he saw it. In the angel's eyes, once so distant and cold, something had shifted. A flickering fire of defiance flared within them, a glimmer that could be justified as something like... silent resolve. Aventurine would have never believed it, had he not witnessed it for himself, but the Sunday - the one who seemed most likely to be the embodiment of sacred volumes preaching order and discipline - made eye contact with him, as if accepting the challenge. Angel gracefully leaned forward, as the time seemed to stop. Aventurine watched, unable to even blink, as the angel's perfectly shaped lips hesitantly parted, then delicately closed around the fork, accepting the offered treat.

Aventurine nearly choked on air; his mouth dry.

This stupid stunt shouldn't have made him feel anything but irritation. It certainly should not have caused his heartrate to increase. And yet... Aventurine stared at the angel sitting across from him, afraid to miss the slightest detail, caught up in the intimacy of the moment.

Aventurine's gaze travelled over the angel face, occasionally stopping on tiny, inconsequential details: the golden eyes that widened for a moment in genuine surprise; the wings behind the ears, which trembled, exposing the pleasure the angel had carefully masked; and the small stain of white cream left over in the corner of his mouth. The last particularly captured his attention and wouldn't allow him to think of anything else - it was such an innocent detail, but Aventurine’s mind immediately diverted to inappropriate imaginings.

When the angel finally swallowed the dessert, the movement of the angel's throat instantly caught Aventurine's attention. Under the same inquisitive stare, Sunday hastily wiped his lips with a napkin, and barely noticeable blush appeared in his pale cheeks. With no cream in the corner of his lips to distract him, Aventurine suddenly understood something, and the realization drenched him like cold water.

He’d lost.

He almost wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of what was happening. He lost - in his own game, using his own rules, on his own turf. So much preparation went into this - the carefully selected stage, the exact placement of the pieces, the execution... and a single act from the angel scattered all of his cards, flipped over the board, and his schemes fell apart like the house of cards. And perhaps the most horrid (the most beautiful) thing was that the defeat didn’t irritate him, but intoxicated better than any whiskey, any win, better than the shot of adrenaline of a wager in a casino. At that moment, Aventurine felt alive.

His pulse increased, drumming the sides of his head, and his fingertips tightened on the fork. He so desperately wanted to continue - to press even further, creating more and more cracks, to destroy the angel’s outer layer, and leave only ruins.

But the internal voice of reason, that was so irritatingly rational, told him to stop.

"Thank you..." the angel said, not even imagining the whirlwind he had created in Aventurine's soul. "I hope it was enough... to amuse you."

"Oh, more than enough... " Aventurine forced out a laugh, and calmed the swirling chaos in his head. He leaned in. "But let's be honest, angel. You liked it."

An awkward silence hung between them. Aventurine pushed the plate closer to Sunday, the porcelain gently clinking on the polished wood.

"Well, care for another bite? We both know that you want to."

Sunday looked at him indignantly, like an insulted aristocrat who had just been made an indecent proposal. But he didn’t argue.

***

The rest of the evening continued in relative silence, broken only by the muted discussions of the other patrons. Aventurine leisurely sipped his tea, while stealing glances at the angel over the porcelain rim. Sunday sat with his eyes half-closed, slumped in his chair, his eyes absent as if he were somewhere else entirely and not here.

After their little performance, the angel flatly refused all the dishes offered to him. He only relented once, under the guise of politeness, to try a very small strawberry tart. But a win's a win, no matter how small. However, that truly was the limit for the angel, and he checked out of reality completely, retreating into himself, while leaving Aventurine alone with his boredom and a cooling cup of tea.

Well, every game, just like their impromptu dinner, eventually had to end. And it’s time to call it quits.

Aventurine signaled for the waitress to bring the bill. The girl nodded and hurried off to the counter, her presence alone creating enough of a stir to wake up the angel. Sunday jumped and opened his eyes. He blinked adorably for few seconds, like a lost bird, but quickly composed himself and even tried to open the check holder that had been placed on the edge of the table. But Aventurine was quicker, pushing it back down with his palm, snapping the leather folder shut.

"Ah-ah, angel, no peeking." He masterfully swiped the bill away from curious eyes, already pulling a credit card from his wallet. "My treat. Those are the rules."

The angel frowned but chose not to argue.

"Did you enjoy everything?" the waitress asked politely, as she took his card from him, unconsciously looking over all of the untouched plates with food.

"More than," Aventurine flashed the waitress a charming smile, giving a salute with his teacup.

Sunday, for his part, chose to remain silent.

"We're so happy for you!" the girl beamed, then, a bit embarrassed, she added, "But your lovely girlfriend has barely touched her food. Was there anything wrong with the dishes?"

Aventurine almost spilled the rest of the tea on his trousers.

"I'm sorry, what?" he turned sharply toward Sunday.

The color was rapidly draining from angel’s face, and his eyes widened, confirming that Aventurine had heard correctly. "Girlfriend?"

"Oh, I'm sorry if I misunderstood anything."

Aventurine continued to bore into the angel with his gaze, waiting for him to at least become angry, or quietly correct the supposed misunderstanding, making the girl flustered and apologetic – that would have been so predictable. Too predictable, in fact, and after tonight, he was hoping for a better performance. Yet, Sunday still hadn't said anything. He was completely still like a statue. Only his golden eyes reflected a whole spectrum of emotions, and they held something that looked like a panicked plea. Aventurine was completely baffled. What could the angel be pleading for? Was the mere prospect of a conversation already unbearable for him?

"He…" Aventurine opened his mouth, ready to correct the misunderstanding, since the angel seemed to want it so badly.

But he froze, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Sunday had tensed even further. His look became more desperate and he subtly shook his head.

Aventurine blinked, not believing his eyes. It couldn't be. Was... was Sunday asking him to play along with this whole farce?

A predatory smile spread across Aventurine's face. How could he possibly refuse a request, especially one so sincere? Oh, this was too good to be true. The evening never ceased to amaze him, deciding in the end to hand him a real jackpot.

"My... girlfriend," he savored every syllable, watching as Sunday began to slowly slide down in his chair, "enjoyed everything very much. She's just watching her figure. Isn't that right, darling?"

Aventurine used his sweetest voice possible, but in response, Sunday gave him a sound that was more of a strangled groan, covering his face with his hands.

"Oh, how sweet!" the girl exclaimed joyfully, clapping her hands. "Pardon my forwardness, but you two make such a beautiful couple! This must be a special night for you. An anniversary, perhaps? Or... oh!" The girl gasped, immediately covering her mouth with her hands. "Oh my goodness, is it an engagement?!"

Well then, since Aventurine had committed to this game, it was too late to back down, and he intended to see the bluff through to the very end.

"You know," Aventurine said, turning to the waitress and leaning on the table, "it all happened rather suddenly. I saw her on the street one day and I just couldn't walk past such..." He looked pointedly at Sunday, searching for the perfect word. "...heavenly beauty. She was literally like an angel, descended from the heavens."

Sunday made a strangled noise, halfway between a gasp and a choke, impossible to decipher, while his face was buried in his hands. Aventurine just sighed theatrically, propping his cheek on his hand, and began to stir non-existent sugar in his teacup.

"At first, she was so cold and unapproachable, and absurdly obsessed with rules. But... even her frozen heart couldn't resist the power of strawberry desserts."

He finished his little monologue and couldn't quite believe the nonsense he'd just spouted himself. However, it was delivered with confidence, and the story sounded convincing enough to fool the girl before them.

"How romantic," the girl sighed dreamily, clasping her notepad to her chest. "Just like a fairytale!"

Sunday let out another pained groan as he hid behind his wings, folding them in front of his face like a shield. Curious, Aventurine never suspected they could do that.

"She's a little shy," Aventurine explained to the giggling waitress. "But that's part of her appeal."

"You're the perfect couple! You must come again!" the girl stated as a final farewell before fluttering off to the next table, humming a simple little tune as she left.

Aventurine followed the waitress with his eyes, waiting until she disappeared behind the counter. The angel was still sitting at the table, having adorably hidden himself from the entire world behind both his wings and his hands, as if convinced that if he couldn't see the world, the world couldn't see him either.

No matter what angle he considered it from, Aventurine couldn't quite understand how the waitress mistook Sunday for a girl. Perhaps it was his features, too delicate and refined for a typical man, or even the manner in which he was sitting. Or maybe the reason lay in how the angel delicately held the teacup in his slender fingers, the tips barely grazing the fragile porcelain. Come to think of it, all of it could have been misleading. Although it seemed as if the angel himself was unaware of all the charm he possessed.

"Well now, my better half," Aventurine said as he stood, placing his fedora on his head, " isn't it time we headed out? Or are you intending to cower behind your wings until the morning?"

The snow-white feathers lowered slowly, revealing angel’s face. Aventurine barely suppressed a chuckle. Sunday's cheeks were burning with a bright blush, while a true hurricane of emotions, changing at a frantic pace, had erupted in his golden eyes: indignation battled with embarrassment, while resentment mixed together with shame. They swirled in a mad dance, making his eyes sparkle like two precious gems in the soft light of the lamps. Aventurine caught himself staring, trying to capture every emotion that played within those usually cold eyes.

Aventurine couldn't shake the feeling that if looks could kill, he would have long since known the full force of divine punishment. On the other hand, wasn't this what the angel had been begging him for with such desperate passion? The hilarity and absurdity of it was glorious, though entirely out of character for Sunday.

The angel rose and walked by silently, obviously choosing not to indulge his curiosity. Fine, if he wanted to play silent treatment, he could, but Aventurine knew he wouldn't be able to evade the question forever.

***

Aventurine left the café, breathing in the crisp autumn air, and headed for the car where Sunday was waiting at a respectful distance. He shifted the pink box of sweets to his other hand, searching for the keys in his jacket pocket. The waitress had shoved it into his hands right at the exit, saying something about a gift from the establishment. Inside was a mix of strawberry desserts, from simple tarts to complicated pastries, and Aventurine decided not to refuse – especially since the angel had proven to have quite the sweet tooth.

Sunday didn't even look in his direction, intently studying a lamppost entwined with fir branches. Aventurine involuntarily let his gaze linger on him a moment longer. A strange feeling that something was wrong nagged at him, as if something invisible about his appearance had changed, as though a translucent veil had lifted from the angel's figure. Now Sunday seemed sharper, standing out starkly against the deserted street, and his skin, just as it had that morning, had a faint silvery shimmer in the light of the streetlamp. Although, perhaps, it was just an unusual play of light.

They got into the car in complete silence. Sunday, barely having touched the seat, was quick to buckle his seatbelt. Aventurine barely suppressed a chuckle that threatened to escape his throat. It seemed his driving style had made a lasting impression on the angel – though perhaps too strong of one.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the cabin in the darkness, except for the illuminated dashboard, and dim light from the streetlamps.

"Take it," he said, holding out the box of sweets to Sunday.

The angel stared at it as if it might explode at any moment.

"What is this?"

Aventurine raised an eyebrow. "A box."

Sunday merely gave him a meaningful look, full of quiet judgment, and turned away, deliberately ignoring Aventurine in favor of watching the dull branches outside the window. For a moment, it felt like they had reverted to the very beginning of the evening, with Sunday sitting coolly next to him, his proud profile outlined against the streetlights.

No, this wouldn't do. This silent treatment didn't suit Aventurine.

He wouldn't admit defeat. So… he smirked and, in one quick motion, unceremoniously placed the box on the angel's lap.

The reaction was immediate. Sunday flinched and whirled around, finally fixing all his attention on Aventurine. True indignation flared in his eyes, his wings twitched and fluffed up, as a few downy feathers drifted onto the leather upholstery.

"What are you…"

"And what does it look like?" Aventurine cut him off, leaning into his seat.

Sunday looked from the box in his lap, to Aventurine, and back to the box with confusion.

"Like another provocation," he finally announced.

Aventurine grinned. Impressive.

"As you wish. But I'd better call it a consolation prize for managing to entertain me," he shrugged nonchalantly, adjusting the rearview mirror. " And by my rules, even losers get sweets. So, take it or don't. You can throw it out the window for all I care. Your choice."

He watched him intently in the mirror, catching the smallest details, assessing every reaction like the angel was a player at a poker table. Sunday didn't respond, merely withdrawing into himself again, sinking into some thoughts known only to him, his unfocused gaze fixed somewhere in the darkness outside the window. The sweets were still on his lap, while his slender fingers unconsciously slid over the smooth surface of the pink box.

At the second glance, Sunday looked paler than usual, and intuition told him that such a ghastly shade was not natural. Deep shadows had settled beneath his golden eyes, which had lost their former sharpness, making the angel look somewhat distracted. One could see how his hands trembled faintly, and his breathing had hitched, becoming shallow and ragged. Sunday was clearly in need of rest, no matter how tightly he clung to his pride, trying to prove otherwise.

Aventurine tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, weighing his next move. He could see how completely exhausted and defenseless the angel was; his outer barriers were crumbling, ready to fall at any moment and reveal his vulnerability to the world. To strike now would be a decisive blow. Right now, he could press with maximum force, wring every last answer he wanted out of Sunday, down to the very last drop. And the angel would yield, telling him everything without concealment, satisfying his curiosity, and then, broken, would dissolve into the embrace of the cold night, as if he had never existed.

Something sharp pricked in his chest, echoing with a dull, aching pain.

He shouldn’t. It was wrong. Too cruel to someone who had done him no wrong.

No. He needed answers. He had to break this innocent angel for his own gain, after all, that was what he did best. His opponent's exhaustion or defenselessness shouldn't concern him. No one in this world was truly innocent, and he had to act before a fatal blow was dealt to him.

Those were the rules of this world's game.

And yet, that burning, long-forgotten feeling still smoldered somewhere in there, weeping in the emptiness of his soul's most secret corners – so meaningless and weak, unworthy of existence.

"Still, angel, I am curious..." The words broke free, silencing the turmoil in his head. Aventurine was about to do what he did best...

"About what?" Sunday asked cautiously.

"That charming performance at the café," Aventurine said, tilting his head. "So unlike you."

"I have no idea what you mean," Sunday replied coldly.

"Oh, really?" Aventurine leaned on the steering wheel. "What about being mistaken for a pretty girl and not even bothering to correct the waitress?" His eyes deliberately traveled down angel's frame and back up. "Then again..."

The tips of Sunday's ears burned crimson red, as his wings fluttered, fingers tightening on the gift box.

"It was... a necessary precaution," he forced the words out.

"A precaution?" Aventurine echoed, his curiosity flaring. "Oh please, explain."

Sunday fell silent, chewing on his lip, as if hoping for divine intervention.

"Earlier today," he started, refusing to meet Aventurine's eyes, "my appearance was attracting too much attention. It was a problem. I used an illusion to appear as an ordinary girl to mortals."

"A girl." Aventurine blinked. "You chose to disguise yourself as a girl."

"It was practical. Meant to cause less trouble." His cheeks were red now, bringing back some color to his pale face. "But then things got... complicated. I forgot."

"You forgot..." Aventurine repeated, fighting back a laugh.

"The illusion is gone," Sunday said quickly, desperate to end the conversation. "I took it down when we left."

And then it finally dawned on Aventurine what was missing from Sunday’s appearance. The realization clicked into place like a gear. The faint, iridescent shimmer, reminiscent of light on a soap bubble, that had constantly surrounded the angel since their first meeting in the church, was gone without a trace. But the same couldn't be said for this whole theater of the absurd. Not only had this proud, cold, and unapproachable angel been walking around in the guise of a sweet girl this whole time, but he had also managed to forget about it.

Aventurine couldn't resist asking. "You could have chosen any form. A venerable professor, a humble clerk, even a street musician. But you chose..."

"Is that the only thing you found interesting in this whole story?!" Sunday turned to him sharply, and his wings, just like in the café, shot up to cover his burning cheeks. Cute.

"Well, it is a rather specific choice," Aventurine merely shrugged in response.

"Please, I'm begging you," Sunday hid his face with a wing. "The disguise is gone. It proved to be useless, and I wasted my strength for nothing. Can we just... forget about this?"

Aventurine wanted to keep teasing the angel, he truly did, but something was nagging at him. There was an obvious contradiction in his words – or rather, a gaping logical hole that rendered his entire attempt at an explanation meaningless.

"Something doesn't add up here, angel," he said thoughtfully. "If you were disguised the whole time, then why did I see you as you really are?"

A tense silence hung in the car for a few moments. Sunday sat there, thoughtfully staring a hole through the blinking light that signaled an unbuckled seatbelt.

"That is strange, indeed," Sunday finally said, turning his head to meet Aventurine's gaze at last. His eyes were strangely cold and empty, as if all the emotions that could be read in them before had been switched off at once. In their place came something distant, detached, and frighteningly serious, which made Aventurine involuntarily shiver. "And to be honest, I would also like to know the answer."

Chapter Text

Sunday was mortified to admit it, but at some point, during the ride, he had fallen asleep. Oddly enough, it seemed to him that the car was moving with remarkable smoothness and a measured pace, which was very different from their first ride in this hellish box on wheels. Even the steady hum of the engine this time didn't evoke that terrible desire to press himself into the seat. Instead it soothed him, like a quiet lullaby.

At first, Sunday resisted with all his might, fighting against sleep, forcing himself to watch the night city flash past the window in a colorful blur, but that only lulled him more. The coolness of the glass calmed his throbbing head, which pulsed in rhythm with the engine, and finally fatigue overtook him. His eyelids grew heavy and eventually he surrendered to drowsiness somewhere around the third traffic light.

He came to from a careful touch on his shoulder, snapping his eyes wide open. It still took Sunday several agonizing moments to get himself together: he blinked hard, trying to collect himself piece by piece. But the first thing Sunday became aware of wasn’t the place where he now found himself, nor even someone else’s presence near him, but the warm pink cardboard box of sweets still resting on his lap.

And… it was downright wrong.

For him it should have become a symbol of that entire shameful performance in the café, the physical manifestation of his own confusion, the commotion and Aventurine's flagrant audacity. A foreign object that should have been disposed of long ago, or at least set aside with appropriate disdain. But for some unknown reason his fingers clung to the cardboard, against his own will. The box emanated a tempting aroma, as if he were surrounded by strawberries, so sweet and alluring that Sunday simply couldn't make himself let it go.

"Hey, sleeping beauty, it's time to wake up." Aventurine turned off the engine, plunging the cabin into abrupt silence, broken only by the ticking of the cooling motor. Yet he made no move to leave – just sat there, studying Sunday with an intensity that made him feel like a rare songbird whose value was being assessed before the cage door locked.

In the semi-darkness, his companion's unusual eyes seemed brighter than ever, as cyan and magenta bled into each other. Sunday used all his willpower not to look away first. A voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was behaving improperly, that he shouldn't stare so intently. But the contrasting colors created a hypnotic effect, holding his own mind captive.

They looked at each other in the silence of the cooling car, seconds stretching between them. Then Aventurine broke eye contact first, slipping out of the car onto the street, leaving Sunday alone with his confusion and a heart that seemed ready to jump out of his chest.

He decided not to dawdle and hurried to get out after him, refusing any assistance before it could even be offered, no matter how much his foolish heart might desire it. But the moment his feet touched the asphalt, he regretted his hasty decision. The dank autumn air penetrated every layer of his clothing, sending shivers through him. The cozy warmth of the car gave way to night's icy breath, and for one desperate moment, he wanted to retreat back inside, but suppressed this insane thought, only gripping the box tighter, which was losing its previous warmth rather quickly.

To distract himself from the frosty needles piercing all the uncovered areas of skin, Sunday surveyed his surroundings. The colossal building across from them immediately caught his eye, so massive he had to tilt his head back to take in its full height.

Towering over them stood a monolith of glass and concrete, its sharp spire reaching high up, piercing the velvety fabric of the night sky. It was a true skyscraper. For a moment it even seemed to Sunday that he had already seen it this morning, passing by... or had he not? In this city all the buildings were too similar to each other to tell for certain.

It was geometrically flawless, symmetrical and undoubtedly grandiose, as it glowed with countless windows, creating the illusion of life. However... behind such a beautiful and expensive facade was only emptiness. 

Sunday winced. The building seemed to radiate hostility, which was very different from the elegant architecture of the celestial halls, which he was accustomed to. It exuded coldness. But not the street cold that bit at the skin, but a different, deeper kind that seeped into the very soul, squeezing it in an icy vice.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Aventurine's voice came from somewhere beside him. "Ninety-nine floors of pure capitalism. My apartment's at the very top."

Sunday dragged his gaze back to him, once again trying to understand this anomaly of the mortal world. From the very moment they left the café, he'd been bracing himself for the inevitable interrogation, constructing clear, concise answers about the shadow, about angels, even preparing evasive responses in case Aventurine pressed him about the mission. But Aventurine had remained silent. He'd simply driven, occasionally casting those strange, thoughtful glances his way.

It contradicted everything Sunday had learned about him. Confused him. Stripped away familiar logic. Even irritated him. Every time he thought he was getting closer to understanding Aventurine, the truth slipped through his fingers, leaving him grasping at nothing.

"Why?" The question escaped before Sunday could stop it. 

Aventurine turned, raising one eyebrow. "Why what? Why at the very top?" He casually adjusted his cuff. "You have to understand, angel: from up here, you get a wonderful view of the city. You can see everything. The whole world in the palm of your hand..."

The phrase was strangely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He swallowed, trying to dismiss the sensation.

"No." The word scraped his throat, but Sunday forced himself to continue. "Why aren't you asking questions?"  His fingers tightened on the box. "You wanted answers. We had an agreement, and I'm ready to fulfill it."

Aventurine finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. Once again, Sunday felt that scrutinizing gaze on himself, but this time, he held it.

Aventurine snorted and changed the subject without any warnings.

"Hey, do you want to know the difference between an ordinary gambler and a true one?" A smirk played at his lips, but Sunday's eyes were already drawn to Aventurine's fingers as they slid to the gold watch on his wrist. "An ordinary one presses on the weak spot. Sees a crack – and hits, hits, hits until he breaks his opponent." He ran his finger over the dial, as if checking the time. "Effective, I won't argue. But..."  Aventurine raised his gaze, eyes sparkling in the lamplight. "terribly boring. And short-sighted."

He took a step closer, but Sunday didn't notice right away, too caught by the gaze. 

"But a true gаmbler knows when to stop. When to let his opponent catch their breath, gather their strength, believe that not all hope is lost yet..." His voice, low and velvety, vibrated through Sunday's entire body like a cello. Multicolored eyes slid over his small wings, causing them to shudder, as Aventurine continued. "Because a bird cornered is dangerous. It might die of fear right in your hands. Or lie about anything, just to break free."

A fire of indignation flared up in Sunday's chest, burning away without a trace that strange sensation that had just run through his body. Did Aventurine seriously consider him capable of deception? Think that he had come with him only to weave lies? Words were ready to burst out... about how angels don't lie, that even the very suggestion of it was simply insulting to him.

"I don't..." 

He didn't finish. The world around him stopped for a second, then rapidly began to blur at the edges. His head became cottony, and the sounds of the city that had been haunting him since morning simply vanished, as if an invisible conductor had abruptly lowered his hands, prematurely interrupting the metropolis's cacophony.

It became harder to breathe and Sunday realized that each inhale required concentration from him. The fog in his head was thickening, and the pulse in his temples beat out its own rhythm, dissonant with the frantic and ragged beating of his heart.

The asphalt beneath his feet lost its solidity, causing the world around him to sway. Sunday took an uncertain step forward to regain his balance. But this turned out to be a mistake...

A hand caught him by the elbow before he could fall.

Sunday's head snapped up, and he froze, his mind going blank: Aventurine was leaning over him – so close he could make out individual golden threads on the lining of the jacket. Warm breath tickled Sunday's skin, causing the heart in his chest to beat faster and the wings to fluff up. His face grew hotter, despite the temperature outside... He needed to say something, anything, to break the spell and restore at least a modicum of dignity.

"Listening to the suffering has always been my work," he said, the first thing that came to mind, his voice distant and hollow even to his own ears. Yet the firm grip wouldn't let him lose consciousness. "I promised to fulfill our deal. It's my duty."

He tried to free himself, more out of principle than genuine desire, but Aventurine's fingers only gripped his arm tighter. The foreign warmth penetrated through the rough fabric of his cassock, slowly restoring clarity of thought. And Sunday, to his horror, realized that he didn't want to be let go.

A thought impossibly absurd, gone too far.

"Duty," Aventurine smirked and shook his head. "Listen, angel, I really am impressed by your devotion to principles. Truly. I could even use it, if I wanted to."

The distance between them had shortened to indecency – Sunday didn't even notice exactly when this happened. The cologne hit his nose again, its scent mixing with the frosty autumn air.

"But tell me honestly: doesn't it make you sick? Being so proper all the time, clinging to duty as if your life depends on it. Because from my point of view it looks kinda... sad."

"I don't need your pity," Sunday straightened up, gathering the last crumbs of strength and trampled pride.

This time he pulled away more decisively, and Aventurine allowed him to, slowly removing his hand with some reluctance. But he didn't step back, ready to catch him if needed. Not that Sunday would allow that to happen again.

"Pity?" Aventurine snickered, but it came out hollow. "I'm not offering any, believe me." He turned toward the building's entrance, keeping Sunday in the corner of his eye. "I'm just postponing our conversation for a better time and place."

He paused to flick an imaginary dust particle from his sleeve.

"Don't you worry, angel, the deal's still on. But I'd rather we talked somewhere more comfortable. In warmth, with a cup of good coffee..." he smirked, "or a glass of champagne, if that's more to your liking. And with an interlocutor who's capable of giving satisfactory answers. And you..." Aventurine cocked his head to the side. "Admit it, right now you can barely tell up from down, let alone complex things."

He turned toward the building, clearly considering the conversation over, but Sunday still hadn't moved from the spot.

His eyes caught on the skyscraper again, which still loomed over him just as coldly and inhospitably, radiating an emptiness that so strongly resembled the one spreading inside his own chest. His fingers clenched on the pink box again. He still hadn't figured out what to do with it. Just as with the swarm of scattered thoughts chaotically circling in his head. Aventurine's spicy cologne still hung in the air, evoking feelings he didn't understand at all and didn't want to accept.

This contradicted everything he had learned in the Heavens.

His mission was supposed to have gone completely differently. He had a clear plan and a definite goal, and deviations from the course were unacceptable. That's what Master Gopher Wood taught him. That was correct.

But instead of fulfilling his mission, he stood here – disheveled, in unpresentable clothes, completely exhausted, led by a person whose cologne for some reason wouldn't leave him alone. Holding sweets in his hands that he shouldn't have accepted. Feeling the warmth of someone else's touch through his clothes...

Everything was going wrong. He had strayed from the course, betrayed the Master and the mission. He needed to return. Turn around and dissolve into the night, as befits an angel.

And yet...

A voice surfaced in his memory that he hadn't heard, it seemed, for an eternity. So dear and simultaneously unbearably distant, forgotten by him from that very day. Warm tender hands, the rustle of a thousand feathers of large snow-white wings, a lullaby sung to him when he was hurt or scared.

His mother's voice, the last words she had whispered to him:

"My dear, please, remember that a thorny path can always lead you starward. But don't let the thorns wound you before your time..."

Something squeezed his chest from within, as he looked up to the sky.

"A thorny path can lead you starward," he repeated in a whisper. The words escaped on their own, like a prayer, beyond Sunday's will.

"Huh, maybe," Aventurine's voice cut through the memory, dragging him back to the cold autumn night. "Nice metaphor, I'll give you that. But..." He turned, flashing that familiar smile. "An easy path will lead you to my penthouse. Which, you know, is also not a bad option."

Sunday's cheeks flushed.

The mortal absolutely should not have heard that. These words were personal and sacred – his mother's last gift, which he kept in the most hidden corners of his soul. And now Aventurine knew them, and it felt as if he was stripped of all defenses...

He needed to disappear. Immediately. Master Wood had always warned him that the mortal world was a dangerous and unpredictable place. Humans couldn't be trusted. Especially ones like Aventurine. Villains.

He should have left. Right now. But he couldn't... Or didn't want to?

An inner voice desperately screamed, begging him to stop. Whispered that the most dangerous trap is the one you enter voluntarily, knowing the danger. He knew, that the Master would never forgive him such debauchery. That Heavens would not tolerate willfulness.

But his legs had long since stopped obeying reason, and his heart pounded loudly in his temples, drowning out the voice of rationality.

Before him stood a mortal with impossible two-toned eyes, offering to enter... And Sunday, to his horror, realized that he had long been ready to take this step.

***

Sunday was guided by Aventurine through the spacious lobby toward a distant wall lined with black granite. Without a word, Aventurine took out a thin card from his jacket and pressed it to a barely visible panel. The doors obeyed his command and opened in silence, revealing an elevator within.

"After you, angel," he gestured him forward.

Sunday stepped over the threshold and immediately froze in place. The space around was finished with dark wood and floor-to-ceiling mirrors, from which his own exhausted reflection stared back at him from all sides: multiple Sundays, and each looked worse than the last.

He looked away, searching for a panel with buttons instead. It should have been somewhere here, by the door – at least that's what his books had taught him – but around him were only smooth walls. Sunday opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by the doors that already closed on their own. No jolt followed – he only felt an invisible force pressing him into the floor.

A display flashed above the door: 1... 15... 30...

The numbers on the panel flickered at an alarming speed, and with each new one Sunday felt his stomach hopelessly lag behind the ascent, remaining somewhere below. His ears popped, and a bitter taste appeared in his mouth.

"Ninety-nine floors in thirty seconds," Aventurine commented, looking completely relaxed in contrast. "IPC technology. Why waste your precious time waiting?"

Sunday clutched the metal handrail with one hand, staring at his reflection, trying not to panic. The mirror showed him worse than he felt, and his skin had acquired not just a pale, but a greenish tint.

"Even we... don't ascend to heaven this quickly."

Aventurine only snorted, leaning against the wall.

85...94...99.

The elevator smoothly stopped, and Sunday felt his organs reluctantly returning to their places. The doors opened with a melodic chime.

"Welcome to the top of the world," Aventurine stepped out first and spread out his arms dramatically, "or rather, the top of this building."

Sunday followed him on unsteady legs, still feeling the phantom movement upward. His body stubbornly refused to believe that the floor beneath his feet was motionless, despite all the laws of physics.

"Make yourself at home," Aventurine continued, removing his hat and casually tossing it onto a chair in the entryway. "I can offer tea to calm your nerves... or something stronger for courage." He turned around, giving Sunday an appraising look. "Though, judging by your appearance, you need both..."

Perhaps Sunday should have chosen something, or at least responded with a polite refusal, but Aventurine's words dissolved somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness, not reaching his ears. His own thoughts stopped for a second, and any words died on his tongue before they could take form. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

Beyond the panoramic windows,  occupying the entire wall of the entryway, stretched the night city. From this impossible height, it had transformed into a silent yet so alive sea of light. In the darkness below them pulsed millions, if not billions, of lights: ruby, amber, and silver sparks, forming one very complex and simultaneously beautiful score. He couldn't believe his eyes.

It was as if the starry sky had been turned upside down onto the earth.

Sunday, as if in a trance, approached the glass, pressing his palm against the cold surface. His other hand unconsciously pressed the pink box to his chest, finally crumpling the neat corners. His breath caught in his throat.

Aventurine was, in fact, absolutely right.

From here, the whole world truly was in the palm of one's hand.

Sunday closed his eyes.

***

"Brother, what do you think we'll see when we fly up?"

Robin's voice sounded in his memory, still so young and delicate, like the chime of a silver bell. They were still just children, sitting on the grass in the garden, surrounded by many fragrant flowers, while above their heads spread a starry sky, sparkling like a scattering of precious stones on black silk.

"Hmm, probably... the whole world at once," he answered then, wrapping his arms around his knees, and the wings behind his back trembled with excitement. "Could you imagine: we'll rise very high, so high that we'll be able to see everything! Rivers will turn into blue ribbons, cities will become like toys, and forests..."

"Will look like green clouds!" Robin chimed in, as her eyes lit up with childish wonder. "And the stars too! Brother, the stars will be so close we can touch them!" She stretched her palm, opened and spread towards the sky, as if to catch the distant light. “And down below everything will be in lights! Millions and millions of tiny lights, just like the night sky, but on earth!” Robin clapped her hands. “And we will also become like two little stars! We'll shine for people forever and ever!"

"Yeah," he nodded, but the smile slipped from his face quite quickly. "Only... you know..." He hugged his knees tighter. A chill came from somewhere, despite the fact that the temperature in the Heavens never changed. "No star shines forever, even the brightest one."

Robin was silent, and the bright expression of her eyes fled, as though a wind had blown out a candle. 

"But that's..." she whispered, as tears welled on her eyelashes. "That's so sad,"

Sunday immediately felt a sting of guilt that pierced his very heart. How foolish he was. He shouldn't have said that...

"No! No-no-no!" he tried to comfort his upset sister, waving his hands. "It's not like that at all! Even if a star dies... well, I mean... You see, its light doesn't disappear right away. It flies and flies through the darkness, lighting the way for others. So a star may disappear, but its light – never. And isn't that wonderful?"

Robin bit her lip, the smile never returning to her face. Then she carefully took his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers and slowly nodded.

"Then..." she squeezed his palms tighter, as if afraid to let go. "Then we'll create our own light. So bright that it will definitely never go out. It will show the way for everyone who gets lost in the dark. That'll be our promise."

"Our promise," he echoed, looking at the bottomless dark sky.

The stars twinkled back at him, the only witnesses, listening and remembering every word that was spoken that night.

"Yes... We'll fly high," Robin added quietly, pressing against his shoulder.

"And we'll see the whole world..."

"The whole world in the palm of our hands."

***

His eyes burned. Sunday blinked, returning to the present. A lump pressed in his throat: who could have thought that his childhood dream would come true precisely here – in the chaotic world of mortals, at the top of a tower of concrete and glass, built by human hands.

Not in the sky.

Not with Robin.

Not the way they had promised each other under the stars.

And yet the view was exactly as Sunday had imagined it then, in the garden. The lights below were in constant motion, flickering like fallen stars. It was truly beautiful, but this beauty caused only pain, dull, aching, as if a shard long lodged in his very heart had made itself known.

All of a sudden, he felt foolish. How long had he been standing there, lost in his memories, swallowing unwelcome tears... Surely Aventurine was laughing at him while watching such a sentimental performance. Or perhaps he was bored, or even angry – after all, Sunday hadn't answered him at all. And to be completely honest, he didn't even remember what exactly he had been asked about.

"I apologize," Sunday turned away from the window, blinking hastily, trying to chase the tears away. "You were saying something?"

But he was answered with silence – Aventurine was nowhere to be seen. Sunday found himself completely alone in the spacious entryway, feeling strangely out of place, just like a singer from a completely different choir whose timbre hopelessly clashed with the overall composition.

He straightened, plagued by a cacophony of chaotic thoughts. Where had Aventurine gone? Had Sunday violated the etiquette of being in someone else's apartment so severely that he decided to go away?

Thoughts of Aventurine brought him back again to the pink box that he was still pressing to his chest. Its cardboard was hopelessly crumpled, the corners abused by his fingers. Suddenly, Sunday felt unreasonably anxious and sad – after all, it was still a gift to him, and he had ruined it with his uncontrolled emotions, surely turning the intricate desserts into a mush. He should probably put it aside quickly before he damaged the strawberry pastries even more.

Sunday looked around for a suitable place, his gaze catching on an elegant chair standing by the wall, not far from a small console table with a massive mirror. On it already lay a somewhat askew fedora that Aventurine had so carelessly tossed earlier.

He carefully placed the box next to it and then… He saw that everything was completely wrong, lying at the incorrect angle. Sunday stiffened: box was not aligned with the fedora. Or chair.

His fingers reached out on their own to correct this discrepancy.

He turned the box, carefully positioning it relative to the symmetry of the chair, then shifted it slightly so it lay at an equal distance from the hat and stepped back, critically examining the result. He tilted his head to the left. Then to the right. Moved box a few more millimeters toward the edge of the chair.

Now it was much better... But still not perfect.

Sunday clenched and unclenched his fingers, stepping back, forcing himself to stop and leave everything as it was. After all, the contents of the box were already hopelessly ruined, and he shouldn't care about exactly how it lay. He must divert his thoughts….to what?....well, to anything he could think of.

His eyes wandered further and stopped on a vase of white orchid flowers, that was standing on the console table by the mirror. It was moved from the centre by just a few centimetres. A completely unimportant detail, a small thing that no one would notice but him, and…

His fingers twitched.

Sunday pressed his lips together and put his hands behind his back, forcing himself to look away. He was just a guest here. This was someone else's home, someone else's arrangement order. He shouldn't interfere. It would be improper. Impolite even.

He stubbornly turned his eyes another way, studying the play of light on the polished parquet floor, the outlines of the furniture, even looking at the coat rack on which hung only one jacket. However, his eyes kept returning to the vase again and again. It attracted all of his attention, scratched at his consciousness, irritated him like a dissonance in a perfectly played symphony. 

He unconsciously leaned forward.

His hand reached out on its own, and before Sunday could account for his actions, he had already carefully moved the vase precisely to the center of the console table. A convulsive exhale escaped his lips, bringing with it a wave of relief. He critically examined the result, then turned the flower so that each petal faced the right direction.

For a moment, it felt like he could finally breathe again.

But then he noticed that the business card holder and keys lying nearby were now at the wrong angle relative to the vase. Order was disrupted again, and with it the remnants of his composure.

His fingers moved on their own, no longer controlled by reason. Business card holder – parallel to the edge. Keys – perpendicular to the business card holder. Vase – strictly in the center. Everything had to become even and orderly, dissonance and asymmetry were unacceptable.

Sunday exhaled again, feeling the tight spring inside begin to uncoil: each item on the console had found its harmonious place, creating a perfect composition. The tension gradually receded...

And then he looked up at the mirror.

In the lower left corner, a tiny speck darkened the glass.

His heart painfully clenched. Quite small, barely noticeable... but it was there.

Sunday frowned, slowly extended his hand and ran his finger across the cold surface of the glass, trying to wipe it away.

The spot didn't yield.

He ran it again, but harder this time.

Then again.

And again...

"Having fun?" A voice from behind snapped him out of it.

Sunday jerked and turned around, accidentally hitting the keys that he had so carefully aligned over the last few minutes. The metal clinked against the edge of the console table and flew down, shattering against the parquet with a deafening clang that echoed throughout the entire entryway.

His already frayed nerves stretched to the limit, and Sunday shrank internally, wishing to fall through the floor right here and now. To fly down all ninety-nine floors and crash to his death somewhere in the lobby, just to not feel this suffocating shame that seemed to be trying to burn him from the inside.

"Careful, angel," Aventurine stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the frame. A light smirk played on his lips. "If you break something valuable, I'll have to send you a bill."

How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen? Sunday stiffened and straightened, trying to salvage whatever dignity remained. His hand moved behind his back in the elegant, aristocratic gesture Master Wood had drilled into him.

Aventurine's eyes tracked the movement. He shrugged.

"Relax. I'm joking," he said and with a dramatic sigh. "Just be more careful next time you wreck my entryway. Wouldn't want you getting hurt on the..."

At that very moment there was a quiet pop, followed by the sound of breaking glass. The air instantly filled with the acrid smell of burnt plastic and charred electronics.

Sunday flinched and turned around. Aventurine also raised his head, lifting an eyebrow in surprise, as his gaze snapped to the ceiling. There, under the very cornice smoldered the remains of some device. Sunday followed his line of sight to the fragments scattered across the polished parquet – glass shards surrounding what looked like melted plastic.

Silence settled over the entryway, broken only by the crackling of exposed wires.

Aventurine stared at the ceiling, then slowly looked back at Sunday.

"...shards," he finished dryly.

Sunday opened his mouth, then closed it. And how could he have forgotten about this? It was even surprising how long that device managed to hold out. First, he had ruined the gift, and now he had destroyed what was surely Aventurine's expensive property. Maybe he didn't belong here after all.

"I apologize," he said, as he finally managed to gather his thoughts. "Angels don't get along very well with technology. I... I'll compensate for the damage."

Aventurine silently looked at him for several seconds, then slowly stepped forward and picked up one of the charred shards from the floor. Turned it between his fingers, studying it with feigned interest.

"This surveillance camera," he pronounced each word thoughtfully, raising the fragment to eye level. "A top model, by the way. Costs approximately..." he paused, as if calculating the price in his head, "...as much as three of those pink boxes with sweets. Maybe four. I'm afraid you don't have that kind of money."

Sunday's ears flushed, and he bit his lip. His eyes involuntarily returned to the box on the chair. Why did Aventurine choose precisely that thing for comparison? Although Sunday couldn't help but admit that he was right about something and he truly didn't have a credit to his name. However...

"It's true that I don't have any money," he tried to sound more confident than he really was. "Yet I can repay you in another way... Maybe I could... perform a particular service for you? Or..."

"Oh, you, beautiful creature," Aventurine cut him off. For a brief moment a dangerous gleam appeared in his two-toned eyes, making Sunday instantly regret his rash words. "I would strongly recommend against throwing around such promises. Do you have any idea what some people would do with an offer like that?" He tossed the fragment onto the floor, dusting off his hands. "Trust me, you don’t want to find out." He turned all his attention back to Sunday, but there wasn't a shadow of a smile on his face, while his eyes seemed empty and lifeless. "But... I'll remember that."

Something in Aventurine's last line sent an uncontrollable chill that ran right through him, to the very tips of his wings. The tone in which he’d used lodged itself firmly in Sunday’s mind, ringing like an alarm bell in his ears, as if signaling that he might have just sealed his own fate.

Meanwhile, Aventurine straightened up and headed deeper into the apartment, turning around halfway as if nothing had happened.

"Angel, come in, don't be shy. Though if you're planning to settle in the entryway, I can bring you a blanket and pillow here. True, the floor might be cold, but the view of the front door is excellent."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," Sunday said politely, shaking his head as he followed him inside.

***

The moment they entered the room, the bright light almost blinded Sunday as dozens of recessed fixtures lit up simultaneously, making him squint. Aventurine pressed something on a panel by the entrance, and the brightness instantly dimmed to a warm shade that didn't hurt his already tired eyes as much.

The living room was so spacious that it could easily fit a hundred people, or even be used to host a small official banquet for members of the Family. Sunday couldn't say for sure whether such an impression was created by the high ceilings, from which his every step echoed hollowly, or because of the almost complete absence of furniture. In the center was a low black sofa with golden cushions, framed by a pair of soft armchairs, before it stood a glass coffee table, on its surface lay several thin brightly covered boxes.

Sunday mechanically picked one up – and, shuddering, immediately returned it. The cover showed quite a gruesome picture: a masked figure with a roaring chainsaw, surrounded by flying red scraps of what looked like human organs. Just looking at it brought back an unpleasant feeling of anxiety, turning his insides upside down.

He quickly looked away, and his eyes almost immediately landed on a grand piano in a shadowed corner of the room. As if pulled by an invisible thread, Sunday approached closer and carefully ran his fingers over the lid. On the polished surface there wasn't a single speck of dust. The instrument was flawless: black and glossy, and in its shiny surface Sunday could even make out his own distorted reflection. And yet… it was clearly untouched. Like a very beautiful and expensive decoration, left to eternally remain silent in the solitude of an empty apartment.

Though the same could be said about the entire penthouse. During all his time here, Sunday hadn't noticed a single photograph, clutter, or even trace of real life. Everything looked cold and untouched, as if it was not a home, but a temporary shelter.

Something mournful* clenched in his chest. His fingers trembled over the polished surface. He longed to lift the lid and draw out at least a few notes – anything to dilute this dead, suffocating silence, to fill the space with at least some sound, some semblance of life.

But, in the end, he restrained himself and returned to the sofa, awkwardly lowering himself onto the very edge, straightening his back and clasping his hands together on his knees. Sinking any deeper into the cushions felt too familiar and improper for a guest.

Aventurine returned shortly, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and a small crystal bowl of colorfully wrapped candies. He unceremoniously set it on the table and languidly lowered himself onto the sofa... and not into the armchair opposite, as Sunday had expected, but right beside him.

Too close.

Now he was even closer than in the car. Sunday tensed, instinctively trying to shift away to put some distance between them, but there was nowhere to retreat, since he was already perched on the very edge. The only thing left for him was to accept it and try to distract himself from this uninvited proximity. His attention once again stopped on the box with the horrifying image, despite the fact that just the sight of it made him shiver to the very core.

"Rather boring movie," Aventurine suddenly said, following his line of sight and nodding toward the hideous box. "Too much gore and not enough plot. I was really disappointed, to be honest."

Sunday slowly turned to look at him, trying to figure out if he was joking or being serious. 

"And you consider this... entertainment?" he couldn't help but ask.

How anyone could watch such a film was beyond his understanding.

"Well, some find it interesting," Aventurine shrugged, tapping his fingers on the back of the sofa. "Though I admit, it's a matter of taste." He nodded toward the tray. "Come on, angel, take the tea before it goes cold. I didn't bring it for decoration."

Sunday hesitated, then took the cup nearest to him. The delicate porcelain was pleasantly hot, warming his frozen fingertips. Steam rose from the surface, carrying the aroma of jasmine mixed with something distant and unfamiliar, that he could only describe as sharp and smoky.

"Want some candy?" Aventurine had already unwrapped one and held it out, with a feigned innocence.

"I must decline," Sunday looked away, frowning. He shouldn't indulge in sweets anymore. He had already allowed himself too much.

Sunday raised the cup to his lips and carefully took a small sip. The liquid played on his tongue for a moment with a complex composition of flavors: there was herbal taste of jasmine, sweetness, and something else… but he didn't have time to understand what exactly. As the drink burned his throat, rolled down his esophagus in a fiery wave and settled somewhere in his stomach as a heavy, hot lump.

Sunday choked, nearly dropping the cup.

"What..." Sunday rasped, swallowing hard against the burning spreading through his chest. "What is this?"

"Tea," Aventurine just smiled at him. But this smile was a little strange... rather villainous for Sunday's taste. 

Also... this was nothing like tea. Was it poison? Would Aventurine poison him? Could his earthly vessel even be poisoned? His thoughts tangled, as panic continued to rise. All of it made no sense, but... He felt dizzy, as the heat still lingered in his chest.

"Oh, come on, angel," Aventurine leaned back, twirling a candy wrapper between his fingers. "Don't be so dramatic, I only added a couple of drops."

"Of what?" Sunday's eyes widened in horror.

Could he have been right? Was it really a...

"Whisky," Aventurine smirked, his full attention now on Sunday. "Peated malt. Not bad stuff, either."

Sunday's heart lurched and his wings fluttered against his cheeks – once, twice – as the realization hit him.

Alcohol. He had been in the mortal world for less than a day... and had already tried alcohol.

What would they think of him in the Heavens? The successor of Archstrategos Gopher Wood indulging in sinfulness, drinking spirits in a penthouse with a mortal, sitting in unacceptable proximity from him?

Sunday forcefully set the cup on the table – the porcelain clinked against glass – and shoved it away from himself as far as possible. Then he turned to Aventurine, looking at him with a silent accusation.

"Hey, don't look at me like that," Aventurine raised his hands innocently, but there wasn't a single hint of remorse in his eyes. "You chose that cup yourself. For all you know, it could have been my tea, huh? It's been a long day. Maybe I needed to relax too."

Before Sunday could object, Aventurine had already reached for the tray and taken the second mug from it.

"Here," he held it out, and his voice was softer this time. "It's just tea with honey. No more surprises, I promise."

Sunday looked at the cup with suspicion, but was in no hurry to accept it. The burning in his chest had already subsided, and he clearly wasn't poisoned, but to trust Aventurine after that... He still hesitated, considering his options.

But it would have been impolite to decline. He was, after all, a guest. And Aventurine had clearly made an effort, preparing the tea, judging by the pleasant and calming aroma that rose from the cup. Maybe it was alright if he just…

Sunday sighed, admitting defeat, and with a little hesitation, reached for the cup in Aventurine's hands.

No matter how hard he tried to avoid accidental touch, in the end, he was unsuccessful. Their fingers inevitably met on the smooth porcelain surface, and the warm metal of one of Aventurine's rings slid across the back of his palm, making him all flustered. But he refused to pull away.

Aventurine also lingered a moment longer before slowly releasing his grip.

"Thank you," Sunday murmured, hastily drawing the cup toward himself and cradling it in both palms.

Aventurine just hummed in response.

Sunday took a small sip. The tea tasted even better than it smelled, very different from his first attempt. Where before the drink had been complex, layered, with smoky undertones and a medicinal aftertaste, this one was simple but far more pleasant. The light taste of the tea leaves turned into sweetness on his tongue – so delicate and warm that it could easily pass for sunlight captured and dissolved in hot water.

Warmth spread through his body, relaxing tense muscles and driving away the remnants of anxiety.

Only now did Sunday finally allow himself to admit that he was incredibly tired. His eyelids felt heavy as if ready to fall, and his head seemed stuffed with down that muffled any thoughts. His breathing slowed, became deeper. He just wanted to close his eyes, if only for a moment...

No. He couldn't fall asleep while being a guest. He wasn't invited for that. He needed to fight sleep, stay alert, continue the conversation.

Sunday forced himself to straighten up with an effort of will and shifted his gaze to the piano in the corner of the room. 

"Do you play?" The question had been bothering him ever since he spotted the instrument.

Aventurine briefly looked at the piano with no particular care.

"Nah," he shrugged. "Bought it once at an auction. Liked the look of it, and the price was acceptable." He paused, his gaze slid to the piano and lingered there. "It gives the room a certain status, you know. Makes an impression on guests." Aventurine fell silent for a moment, then made an indefinite gesture with his hand. "Though, if I'm being honest, you're the first guest in... quite a long time."

"Ah... Then I understand why it looks so..." Sunday searched for the right word, but thinking was becoming increasingly difficult. "...lonely."

He must have said something wrong, because Aventurine didn't answer, just stared blankly at the opposite wall, absentmindedly twirling the candy wrapper between his fingers. His own attention returned to the tea, on whose surface danced the light from the lamps, shimmering in all kinds of mesmerizing patterns. It was so easy to be lost in the sight, thinking about nothing...

"You know..." Aventurine's quiet voice broke the silence. "Sometimes, when I can't sleep... I wish I could play." He chuckled. "Weird, right?"

Sunday gripped the cup a bit tighter, trying not to drop it from his trembling fingers.

He shook his head. "No, not weird at all. Music is... well, I can't speak for everyone, of course, but for me, music helps me through hard times. Makes me feel better. Says things that I just can't put into words."

The small pause hung between them. Maybe these words came out too foolish and naive, especially for a man like Aventurine, but Sunday was too tired to stop himself anyway. It even seemed to him that the room was starting to slowly fade away at the edges.

"So, do you play?" Aventurine returned the question back to him.

He was so sleepy. If only he could... 

"I..." Sunday began, but the words seemed heavy on his tongue. "...used to play. With my sister. We..."

He didn't finish. A hazy image flashed before his eyes and immediately dissolved: a large white piano in the celestial halls, surrounded by blooming gardens and Robin, sitting here right beside him. His hands danced across the keys, while she sang a beautiful melody...

The cup tilted dangerously in his hands.

"Hey, angel?" Aventurine's voice seemed concerned to him.

Strange.

Apparently, his tired mind was playing a cruel joke on him. Sunday blinked, trying to focus on the face before him, but it continued to blur, like a reflection in water.

"Sorry, I..." His lids became so heavy. He blinked again, slower this time. "What was I talking about...?"

"Nothing that can't wait until morning," Aventurine's voice was so soft, but so distant. Was he even there still?...

Sunday hoped so. He didn't want to be left alone.

The cup was carefully taken from his weakening fingers. But when had Aventurine managed to get so close? Sunday hadn't even noticed...

"Easy," a low voice sounded from somewhere above. "Let's not add tea stains to the list of things you've destroyed in my apartment today."

Sunday wanted to protest. Wanted to say that he wasn't that tired, that he could still stay awake, that they needed to talk about their deal, but his body thought otherwise. His head jerked forward. The world swam.

"I..." the word came out slurred. "...I'm fine..."

"Of course."

His eyes closed on their own. Just for a moment. Just to rest. Only for one second...

The sofa beneath him became unexpectedly soft. When had it become so soft? Sunday didn't remember.

Darkness pulled him under like a tide.

***

"Angel?"

A familiar voice cut through thick layers of sleep and cotton in his head and ears, but Sunday ignored it. He was too warm and comfortable to worry about anything else.

"Come on, you can't sleep here."

Someone shook him by the shoulder – lightly at first, but then more insistently. Sunday jerked, but still couldn't open his eyes, only made a sound of protest that resembled something between a whine and a chirp. Under normal circumstances he would have been embarrassed, but right now he couldn't care less about that. He tried to break free from the grip, but the fingers on his shoulder refused to let go.

"Your room is ready," the voice came even closer, almost right at his ear. "Unless you prefer to wake up with a stiff neck?"

Someone's breath tickled the tips of feathers behind his ear, and that was enough. Sunday jerked, eyes flying open. The world still spun around him for several moments, resembling a blurred spot of light and unclear shapes. He struggled to remember where he was. Blinked once. Twice.

Gradually the focus returned to Sunday and Aventurine's face turned out to be right before his own, looming over, lit only by the dim light of the living room.

"Finally," Aventurine smiled at him and stepped back. "I was starting to think I'd have to carry you. Though, to be honest, I wouldn't mind… you look just like a sleeping prince."

He winked playfully, but Sunday was in no condition to react to that in any way.

"So, think you can stand up?"

Sunday didn't immediately understand what was wanted of him. Stand up? But he was already standing... Or not? Probably not. Apparently, he was still sitting on the sofa. Or rather, he was lying down now, drowning in the scattered cushions.

He pushed himself upright, and immediately regretted it. Everything around him spun with doubled force, and Sunday clutched his head, barely containing the rising nausea.

"Whoa, easy," hands steadied him: one on his shoulder, the other on his elbow. "Don't rush. Breathe."

"I..." Sunday began, but forgot what he wanted to say. His thoughts, like his body, refused to obey.

"If you say 'I'm fine' one more time," Aventurine sighed, shaking his head with a warning.

Sunday, truthfully, wasn't planning to. Especially since he could never have spoken such a blatant lie aloud. He wasn't fine. Moreover, he felt deeply miserable, tired, and pathetic. Sunday couldn't even remember the last time he had felt so helpless, deserving of nothing but laughter and condemnation.

"Alright, let's go," Aventurine's hand slid around his waist, carefully lifting Sunday to his feet. "Let's get you settled somewhere more comfortable than my couch."

Sunday didn't argue. He allowed himself to be lifted, even allowed himself to lean into Aventurine, looking for warmth, seeking to escape the strange cold that shook his entire body. His legs were disobedient, as if foreign, but the firm grip kept him from falling.

"Sorry," he mumbled, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was apologizing for. But, at least, it seemed right.

Aventurine's lips moved in response, but Sunday couldn't make out the words.

His eyes closed again.

***

The next thing he knew – he was sitting on something incredibly soft. Even softer than the sofa before. He found himself sinking into the mattress, while feeling the cool smoothness of the silk sheets against his skin.

"Angel. Hey, angel."

Gloved fingers snapped right in front of his face. Once. Twice.

Sunday struggled to open his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut, wincing as the bright light of the bedside lamp hit his eyes. His wings twitched, trying to shield his face from it, but lacked the strength, so he simply turned away.

"Oh, you're still with us," said Aventurine. "And I was starting to believe that you had completely passed out."

Sunday tried to focus on him with all his might, straining all his senses, but none of them wanted to work properly. After a couple of tries, when the details around him got clearer and his eyes stopped watering, he was finally able to notice that Aventurine was holding something in his arms: dark and neatly folded.

"Where..." his voice was sleepy and hoarse. "Where am I?"

"In the bedroom." Aventurine handed over the bundle of fabric to him. "My bedroom, to be exact."

My bedroom.

Somewhere close to the edge of his awareness alarm bells were ringing. This information was important – very important – but the sound remained too distant and faint to break through the heavy fog of fatigue. Perhaps he should do or say something. However, all he could manage was to absently press the bundle of fabric to his chest, as if it could protect him, though he didn't even fully understand from what exactly.

"This is for you. Pajamas." Aventurine explained. "I don't think you'd want to sleep in your..." he vaguely gestured toward him. "...current garments."

Sunday looked at the clothes in his hands, then down at himself. Right. He was still in the dusty cassock, dirtying the perfectly clean sheets with his very presence. He really should change.

He set the pajamas aside, and his fingers reached for his throat, searching for the clasp that held the cassock. If he remembered correctly, there should be one small hook... Should have been. But his fumbling fingers couldn't find it in the stiff collar.

Sunday frowned, trying to concentrate through the buzzing in his head. Finally, he found the clasp and attempted to unfasten it. His fingers slipped.

"Sure you can manage on your own?" Aventurine asked doubtfully.

Sunday stubbornly nodded. This time the hook yielded, but his hands dropped helplessly almost immediately after, completely losing their strength.  Which was unfortunate as Sunday still had to somehow pull the heavy cassock over his head. He tugged at the sleeve. Maybe if he did it this way...

"Alright, that's enough," Aventurine stopped his clumsy attempts, intercepting his fingers. "Raise your arms. I'll help."

"What?" Sunday blinked, not fully realizing what was wanted of him.

"Arms. Up," Aventurine repeated more slowly, patiently, as if talking to a stubborn child. "Otherwise we'll sit here till morning."

Sunday just continued to look at him, trying to understand what Aventurine meant. But if he raised his arms, then...

Realization struck with a delay, and blood rushed to his face, breaking through the thick fog of fatigue. Aventurine was going to undress him. By himself. With his own hands.

And the most dreadful thing wasn't even the undressing part, but the fact that under the cassock he had nothing. Nothing at all. Aventurine would be able to see him completely naked.

His breathing quickened,  and his head was spinning again.

"N-no need," he clutched the pajamas, pulling it to himself like a shield. "I c-can do it myself."

Sunday wanted to sound confident, but tremor in his voice betrayed him.

"Of course you can," Aventurine agreed. "The question is only how much time it will take." He tilted his head, studying his face. "Let's do this: you raise your arms, like the cute angel you are. Then I take this thing off, and in a minute, you'll already be sleeping in clean clothes on clean sheets. Or you can continue heroically struggling with the cassock until you completely pass out." He paused, folding his arms across his chest. "Your choice, angel."

The protest stuck somewhere in his throat, never forming into a coherent sentence. Sunday wanted to choose the second option and insist on changing himself. But he was too tired. Moving was hard. Thinking – even harder. And, honestly, the very idea that someone else would solve this problem for him seemed incredibly... tempting right now.

Sunday slowly raised his arms. Then hastily covered his burning face with his wings, folding them in front of himself like a screen in the silly hope that if he couldn't see Aventurine, then maybe he could pretend that nothing was happening.

Aventurine made a hum of approval and set to work.

His movements turned out to be surprisingly gentle and careful as he pulled the heavy cassock over Sunday's head. The rough fabric slid across his body, and cool air Immediately touched his heated skin, making him shiver.

Then something soft and silky was draped over his shoulders and Sunday had to open one eye to understand what exactly. It turned out to be a pajama shirt, clearly expensive, made of dark silky fabric with golden trim. Sunday obediently slipped his arms into the sleeves, freezing slightly as Aventurine began to button the shirt.

First.

Then second.

And third.

His fingers moved with lightness and dexterity, but Sunday still could feel every accidental touch. His new pajamas smelled familiar, spreading around the same sharp, spicy scent that had haunted him all evening. Aventurine's breath tickled the exposed patch of skin at the base of his throat, turning Sunday’s thoughts into a mess.

This was far too intimate.

When he left the Heavens, Sunday could never have imagined that he would be sitting on the bed, completely naked, while its owner was looking at him. Touching him. Dressing him in his pajamas. There was suddenly so much of Aventurine that Sunday simply didn't know what to do with himself.

"I... I'll do it myself," he reached for the pants, intercepting them from Aventurine's hands before he could offer any help. 

Aventurine didn't argue, obediently giving up the clothes with a shrug.

Sunday pulled on the pants as quickly as his uncooperative hands allowed, nearly losing his balance in the process. When he finally sank back onto the bed, all the adrenaline that had kept him afloat for the last few minutes drained away at once. The drowsiness that had retreated only for a moment before returned with double force.

"Sleep, angel," Aventurine pressed lightly on his shoulders, easing Sunday back into the soft pillows. "You need it now. And we'll leave all the talking for tomorrow."

Sunday truly wanted to sleep. But one thought caught like a splinter, not letting him fall into darkness: if he took this bed, then...

"Wait..." he struggled to prop himself up on his elbow, throwing off the blanket Aventurine had just covered him with.

"Angel," a warning note appeared in Aventurine's voice, "if you keep behaving like this, I'll tie you to the bed. And we're not at that stage of our relationship yet, you know."

Sunday ignored this strange threat, too occupied with a more important question:

"And where... where will you sleep?"

Aventurine froze in the doorway. Turned around. Not a single muscle twitched on his face.

"On the couch. Not the first time."

"But..." Sunday frowned, trying to collect his thoughts that were slipping away from him. "This is your apartment. Your bed. I shouldn't have..."

"Sleep, angel," Aventurine repeated, but more insistently now, there was a genuine ice in his voice for the first time that evening. "You don't understand what you're saying. We'll sort it out in the morning."

"Sorry," Sunday exhaled quietly, falling back into the pillows. His body betrayed him. "I didn't mean to..."

Aventurine's fingers tightened on the door handle just for a second, but he said nothing. The click of the lock cut off any further words.

Sunday was left alone in someone else's bedroom, in someone else's bed, in someone else's pajamas that smelled of Aventurine's cologne. His first day in the mortal world had turned out to be absolutely insane and completely unlike what he had been prepared for in the Heavens.

He pressed the pillow closer to himself. Well, at least it was better than a church pew.

Warmth enveloped him from all sides and for the first time all evening he didn't feel the cold and emptiness that seemed to have become his eternal companions from the moment of the fall. His body relaxed, sinking into the comfort of the soft blanket and silk sheets.

Warm. Safe.

Perhaps – just perhaps – Aventurine wasn't as bad as he had initially thought. And maybe... he could be trusted.

At least a little bit.

This thought was the last to flash through his consciousness before sleep finally claimed him.

***

The living room was dark and silent.

Aventurine stood by the couch, gripping its back with whitened knuckles, as his other hand twisted in his hair, ruining the neat styling. Not that it mattered.

Sorry.

The accursed angel's voice embedded itself into his head, living there rent free, refusing to vanish. Such a simple word felt immeasurably heavy. It gently whispered in his head, dragging Aventurine down to the very bottom while he desperately tried to grab onto anything to keep him from drowning.

No one had ever apologized to him, never asked where he would sleep.

No one was supposed to.

So why did this simple "sorry" burn him hotter than the scorching wind of his homeland?

He desperately wanted to laugh, to call all of this a drawn-out farce or just another twist of his unjust destiny. This whole day was just a mess. First, hallucinations in the abandoned church, then the dinner with someone who genuinely believed himself an angel... If his colleagues at work found out, they would definitely give him a one-way ticket to an asylum.

But even that wasn't the most insane part. The peak of insanity was the fact that this angel was now asleep in his bedroom. In his bed. Utterly vulnerable and defenceless...

Trusting him.

Aventurine... of all people in this fucking world.

Oh, the irony.

Laughter stuck somewhere in his throat, turning into something bitter and acrid, dissolving on his tongue with the taste of bile. His hand reached on its own to the inner pocket of his jacket, feeling for the familiar weight of the revolver. 

Only one shot. It would be enough. Just one.

No.

Aventurine jerked his hand away as if burned. A faint tremor ran through his fingers, as his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the couch, holding onto the last remaining shards of self-controll. His mind balanced on the very edge, where one wrong step, one wrong thought, and he would fall and shatter somewhere at the bottom of this abyss.

There was catastrophically not enough air in the room, and his suit seemed about to strangle him, squeezing his entire body. Aventurine loosened his tie with trembling fingers, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, but this brought him absolutely no relief. An invisible noose continued to tighten around his throat, not allowing him to take a full breath.

Something warm and soft settled in his lap, and this "something" turned out to be one of his black cats. The animal curled into a ball and began to purr, as if trying to soothe his stress. Aventurine absently ran his palm over the silky fur. One time. Then another.

This should have helped him. Usually helped.

It didn't help at all.

His thoughts were still too far away, not here at all, returning again and again to the angel's golden eyes, that quiet sleepy voice, the strange sadness about him...

Enough.

Aventurine clenched his fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms. Where did this sudden generosity even come from? Caring for an angel with an incomprehensible name wasn't in his nature. It just wasn't him. Such kindness had never been his style, and now it frankly infuriated him, making him doubt his own sanity. Aventurine never considered himself a kind person. Kindness had always been a luxury he couldn't afford. So why now...

Sorry.

The word echoed in his head, refusing to quiet down.

This had to stop.

Aventurine stood up, dropping the cat. It landed on the floor with an offended meow and immediately disappeared into the darkness of the apartment, but he paid it no mind. He felt as something forgotten seize painfully in his chest, shrinking into a tiny ball... but it was definitely not his heart. No. That had long since forgotten how to hurt.

He desperately needed a cigarette. Maybe its nicotine and foul, rotten smoke could silence this cursed soft voice in his head.

But the entire pack was in the bedroom. In the nightstand to be exact. Next to the bed where the angel was now sleeping – the same angel who had so unceremoniously invaded his life, lodged himself in his head, and simply refused to leave.

Of course. Where else could it be.

Aventurine looked toward the dark corridor, from which not a single sound came, then exhaled wearily, rising from the couch.

Well, now there was no going back... And all of it was his own damn fault, really.

***

The bedroom was just as silent and dark as the rest of the apartment, only dim light breaking through the barely open door, outlining the silhouettes of furniture with uneven edges. Aventurine stood in the doorway of the room, as if chained, unable to take a step. After all, he could still turn around. Could simply leave, forget about the cigarettes, close the door and pretend nothing was happening. But his legs wouldn't obey, and his hand only gripped the door handle tighter.

The angel was sleeping. At least, so it seemed – his breathing was even and calm, his chest barely rising, and Sunday himself was incredibly quiet, as if he didn't exist at all. Though Aventurine knew too little about angels to be certain. Perhaps this was all part of some elaborate game, where he was simply waiting for Aventurine to come closer, so that...

So that what, exactly? Attack him? Absurd. If Sunday had wanted to harm him, he'd had plenty of opportunities throughout the evening.

Aventurine dismissed these useless thoughts and took a careful step into the room, listening to the silence. The parquet treacherously creaked under his weight, making him go still, but the angel didn't even stir.

He noiselessly approached the nightstand and pulled out the top drawer. His fingers immediately felt something cold and smooth, but clearly not cigarettes. Aventurine carefully lifted the object to the light, examining it in the dim glow from the corridor. As he thought, it turned out to be a bottle of pills, the same ones that Ratio had once prescribed him... and completely useless, as today had so thoroughly proven. He turned the vial in his hand, examining the small capsules inside. After all, he could still take just a few, and maybe this entire joke would resolve itself: the angel would vanish, dissolve into darkness, as any self-respecting delusion should.

But what if Sunday was real? What if every glance, every touch, every word today had been real, and not a trick of his mind which had finally crumbled into madness.

The thoughts circled in his head, persistent as a gnats, refusing to be swatted away.

Maybe the pills could give him an answer. Or, at the very least, help him forget, even for a moment, escape into blissful oblivion. Or... make the whole situation even worse.

But what a stellar idea it would be – overdose with a hallucinatory angel as witness. Ratio would have a field day with that autopsy report. No. He needed to stay sharp. Relatively speaking.

Aventurine tossed the bottle back into the drawer probably too sharply, as the plastic thudded dully against wood. He held his breath, listening, but Sunday continued to sleep peacefully, undisturbed by the noise. The cigarettes were found deeper, where he'd left them just yesterday, and Aventurine pulled out a crumpled pack, examining it with slight irritation. It was the second cigarette in a few days. Well, to say his attempts at quitting were going just splendidly...

Aventurine squeezed the pack in his hand, already preparing to leave, when out of the corner of his eye he caught movement: the angel stirred in his sleep and turned onto his side, ending up facing him. And Aventurine found himself unable to tear his gaze away.

Sunday's chest slowly rose and fell in the rhythm of breathing, and the silk pajamas – clearly a little big for his fragile frame – had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the thin, graceful line of the collarbone. Light eyelashes trembled slightly, casting tiny shadows on pale cheeks, and silvery hair lay scattered across the pillow. One strand had slipped onto the angel's face, and Aventurine's hand twitched, wanting to brush away the stray lock.

Without thinking he extended his hand, just a breath away from the angel's face, dangerously close to the pale cheek. Aventurine could feel his own pulse thundering in his wrist. Another centimeter, and he would know – would that impossibly pale skin feel as cool and soft as it looked?

He stopped himself, as the realization hit him. Aventurine jerked his hand back, clenching his fingers into a fist, and took a hasty step backward, increasing the distance. His gaze, desperate for anywhere else to look, caught on the mirror opposite the bed.

A haggard face stared back at him with dark circles under bloodshot eyes, as his hair was in complete disarray. He looked half-dead, like a walking corpse.

And right behind him, in the same reflection, an angel slept bathed in soft light, his skin pale as moonlight, his form achingly perfect.

The contrast was obscene.

But temporary.

Aventurine knew many ways to corrupt something bright and pure. It rarely even required effort – a simple touch was usually enough. Everything he touched blackened and died, eventually. And even an angel would be no exception.

Sunday stirred again and pulled one of the pillows to himself, completely trusting, sensing no danger. The most fatal mistake anyone could make.

Aventurine's hand reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, fingers sliding over the familiar cold metal. He slowly pulled out the revolver, trying not to make noise, and took it off safety. The quiet click of the mechanism seemed deafening in the silence. Something twisted in his chest – guilt? regret? – but he crushed it immediately. 

Aventurine raised the revolver and aimed the barrel directly at the sleeping angel's chest, where a heart should be beating beneath the silk. If it was beating at all. If Sunday was truly real, and not another phantom of his sick imagination.

Just one shot, and he would know the truth for sure.

The hallucination would simply dissolve into the air, disappear without a trace, leaving behind only an empty bed and a bitter taste of disappointment on his tongue.

Or...

Or everything would turn out to be real.

Aventurine imagined how the bullet would enter the ribcage, piercing flesh and breaking fragile ribs, as scarlet blood would bloom across the silk, turning into a dark stain, then slowly spread across the expensive emerald sheets. The smell of gunpowder would mix with copper, and Sunday would let out a surprised gasp, his golden eyes flying wide open, trying to understand what happened, before the light in them faded forever, finally hiding beyond the horizon like the setting sun.

Nausea rose in his throat, and Aventurine squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, driving away the vision.

But angels should immortal, shouldn't they? The bullet wouldn't kill him. Couldn't kill him.

Unless...

Unless he wasn't an angel at all. Unless the blood would be real – hot and sticky, horrifyingly human. And if Sunday truly was an angel... would he ever forgive this betrayal?

He opened his eyes, steadying the grip on the weapon. All these questions, all the doubts... they didn't matter anymore, did they? Not really. Because beneath the fear, beneath the guilt, something else was rising… And it was farr too familiar and intoxicating to ignore.

Excitement.

His finger came to rest on the trigger, skin registering the familiar pressure of cold metal. He just needed to do it, press, make a small effort, push a bit harder. That's all it would take, and he would know for certain. The angel was right in front of him, motionless, suspecting nothing...

Sor■y.

That soft voice surfaced in his head again. His hand trembled, and Aventurine tightened his grip on the handle, squeezing until it hurt, trying to suppress the tremor. But it only intensified, crawling up his arm to his chest, compressing his lungs, making it harder to breathe.

Do it. Don't think.

A second voice – more spiteful, his own – cut through his mind, drowning out the angel's quiet trill. His finger began to press down, just a millimeter, before stopping completely, frozen halfway. Aventurine stared at the angel again as the voice in his head grew louder, more insistent.

Just pull the trigger. Find out if he's real. That's all. What are you waiting for? Press. NOW...

Sunday sighed quietly, barely audibly and pressed the pillow to his chest a bit more firmly. The angel frowned in his sleep, his eyebrows drawing together on the bridge of his nose, lips parting. Perhaps he was having a not-so-good dream. Sunday looked so fragile, as if he could shatter from the slightest touch. Or one bullet. That's all it would take.

The weapon became impossibly heavy in his hand. The metal under his finger burned as if heated red-hot, though it remained ice-cold to the touch.

What the hell was he doing?

Aventurine's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together, and his pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. The revolver wavered in his grip. The barrel dipped, and he forced it back up, but his vision blurred and the aim slipped off target again.

Finish it.

The voice hardened, turned merciless.

You always kill everything beautiful. Always have. It's your fate. Your curse. So prove it. Shoot. Stop being weak. Pull the damn trigger and end it.

"Shut up," Aventurine whispered, but the voice refused to fall silent.

His finger trembled on the trigger, hovering, unable to commit, while the inner voice continued to scream commands.

But he couldn't.

Couldn't do it.

Weakling.

"Shut up," he repeated, louder this time, more desperately.

His breathing was completely off, as dark spots swam before his eyes. His hand shook so violently he could barely keep hold of the weapon. Another second and he'd either fire by accident or drop the revolver altogether.

And at that very moment something dark leaped onto the bed.

Aventurine jerked violently, his whole body recoiling as the barrel swung wildly to the side. His finger flew off the trigger. He stumbled back a step, feeling his heart slam against his ribs with force, pumping adrenaline through his arteries.

It turned out to be one of his cats. It landed silently next to Sunday, then sat perfectly still, ears perked, and turned its head toward Aventurine. Green eyes stared directly at him. Unblinking. Judging. As if the animal understood exactly what had just happened and disapproved entirely.

All the excitement that had been rising in an intoxicating wave just a moment ago evaporated instantly, dissipated like smoke, leaving nothing behind but shame and emptiness. Oppressive and merciless emptiness that filled his chest, pushing what little air remained from his lungs.

The cat showed no intention of leaving, as it padded closer to Sunday's face and sniffed curiously at his nose. The angel's face scrunched up in his sleep but he didn't wake. Satisfied, the cat chose a more comfortable spot, stepped carefully over Sunday's limp arm, and curled into a tight ball right against his chest.

Its eyes never left Aventurine. Silent. Accusing.

Aventurine slowly lowered his hand. His fingers unclenched on their own, and the weapon nearly slipped from his weakened grip.

"And you shut up too," he hissed at the cat, though the animal hadn't made a sound.

He turned sharply and left the room.

***

Smoke from the cigarette rose upward into the sky, dissolving in the darkness, lost against the backdrop of gray clouds that hid the starlight. The air was heavy and humid, promising that rain was about to start any moment.

Aventurine stood on the balcony, wrapping himself in his jacket, futilely trying to protect himself from the dank wind that crept under the fabric, piercing him to the bone. He took a slow drag, feeling the acrid smoke fill his lungs – burning, scratching, but at least filling the emptiness somehow. Exhale. A gray cloud dissolved into the night.

His thoughts quieted for a moment, leaving behind only oppressive emptiness and a vision that stood before his eyes like an obsession: blood, stained sheets, the fading light of golden eyes. His hands ached, seemed dirty, sticky, though there was no blood on them.

At least not now.

But there had been before.

Always had been.

Hot, dark, and so unbearably familiar... not washing away even under the streams of rain that poured down on the blood-soaked desert. It flowed through his fingers, soaked into the sand, stained his child's palms a color he couldn't forget, no matter how hard he tried. The sensation never left him, and the blood remained on his hands, whatever he did.

Your cursed luck killed them all.

Aventurine finished his cigarette and mindlessly flicked the butt over the railing without thought, not caring where it would fall. On someone's head, in a puddle, into the abyss – what difference did it make.

He pulled out the revolver from the inner pocket of his jacket again and thoughtfully turned it in the light, examining the dull gleam of black steel, the wooden grip polished to a perfection and decorated with skillful carving, worn in places where fingers touched most often.

His fingers.

So many times he'd lost count.

He flipped open the cylinder and carefully shook out the cartridges. Five brass casings fell to the balcony floor with a quiet clinking. The sixth remained in the cylinder, glinting alone in the darkness. Aventurine snapped the cylinder back into place, as a quiet click signaled to him that everything was ready for the game.

One bullet. One chance in six.

With practiced ease, he pressed the cold barrel to his temple. The metal was ice against his skin.

Inhale.

Strange, he felt no fear at all.

Exhale.

His finger came to rest on the trigger. His hand didn't tremble, and the motion had become so familiar...

Inhale.

Well, there was only one bullet. Only one chance at luck.

Exhale.

Sorry.

The angel's voice echoed in his head, its unbearable sincerity and tenderness scraping against his heart.

Aventurine squeezed his eyes shut.

And pulled the trigger.

A dull click and nothing more. There was no deafening shot. No smell of gunpowder. No explosion of pain, no liberation, no end. Only an empty, mocking sound of metal on metal.

Inhale.

The revolver slipped from his weakened fingers and fell with a dull thud onto the balcony floor.

Aventurine slowly sank down after it, pressing his back against the cold metal railing. His legs completely gave out. He slid down and remained sitting there, staring at the dark sky with unseeing eyes.

Another failure. His damned luck, as always, worked flawlessly.

Aventurine looked at his own hands. They trembled without stopping with a fine, pathetic tremor that was impossible to supress.

Dirty hands.

A killer's hands that couldn't even kill himself.

The first drops of rain fell on his face, cold and merciless. The heavens finally opened, and water poured down in sheets, washing cigarette ash from the balcony floor, but not the dirt from his hands. Aventurine didn't move. He just sat there under the rain he hated, letting the water soak through his shirt and hair. The revolver lay nearby, forgotten and useless.

He finally laughed bitterly, covering his face with his hands, but his eyes were dry. Tears never came.

Apparently, he would have to keep living.

Again.