Two of Michael's siblings, Gabriel and Ibriel, approached him, unlocking the door to his chamber. The room fell silent until Michael's gaze landed on the chains—the very ones that had been used only once throughout the ages.
"What's happening? Has Father devised a way to punish me?" Michael's thoughts raced, but he held back his impulse to add how quick it seemed. He stumbled over his words, his voice betraying his anxiety before regaining composure.
"He won't wait indefinitely," Ibriel replied, waiting for his sister to open the door, which she eventually did.
"Well..." Michael began, his voice breathless as he asked, "What is it? What is my punishment?"
"He will reveal it to us in Heaven's courtroom," Ibriel explained, entering the room and forcefully restraining Michael with the cuffs. A jolt of pain shot through him, a sensation he couldn't shake off but could easily ignore.
The cuffs possessed a power that rendered beings like him helpless, stripping away his abilities. He was now as vulnerable as Lucifer was around Chloe. These chains became Michael's personal "Chloe," though he had no fondness for his own.
His brother yanked him forward, causing him to stumble involuntarily. Gabriel extended a helping hand, steadying him while both held onto his arm. They ascended a foot above the ground, their wings flapping in a slow, rhythmic pattern like a heartbeat. Frustratingly, Michael's legs dragged along the ground, leaving a faint trail on the once pristine grass.
The souls of the deceased stared at him in confusion, questioning why he was bound by chains and confined in that glass chamber.
Michael returned their gaze with a glare that seemed to say, "What?!"
After what felt like half the population of deceased humans fixating their gaze on him, they finally arrived at the Angel courtroom. God stood at the front, exuding an aura of solemnity and power. The realization that he was about to face the consequences of his actions was terrifying—a cacophony of voices whispered "guilty," "terminator," "killer," "murderer" in his mind. He fought against them, attempting to drown them out.
Every angel sat in anticipation, their eyes shifting between Michael and God, back and forth.
"I have determined the suitable punishment for my son. He shall suffer the consequences of each action. All of you must learn from this!" God's voice was firm, yet calm.
The room fell into a buzz of murmurs, discussions, protests, and agreements. Some angels cried, especially Gabriel.
Michael was now filled with absolute terror. He would be utterly vulnerable, with no escape from the torment that awaited him. It was worse than anything he could imagine in Heaven or Hell combined. If God desired, He could unleash His full wrath upon him.
His eyes scanned the room, searching for something—anything.
God was known for showing His wrath when someone harmed His children. The Almighty Father was a stern, serious figure, but He could also be joyful and playful when the occasion called for it.
"You are dismissed!" God's voice boomed, silencing the chatter and the shuffling of feet as angels exited through the doors on the left and right.
The two angels gripped Michael once more, guiding him towards the designated place, with the creator of everything following closely behind, His hands clasped behind His back, emanating an aura of omniscience.
They left the boundaries of Silver City, entering a plain adorned with lush green grass. And there it was—the place. Stars twinkled overhead, but even their beauty couldn't compensate for the suffering that awaited him.
In the center stood a sturdy wooden cross, surrounded by a circle of grass splotched with shades of gray. Ropes dangled from the crossbeam, intended for his hands and feet—itchy and painful. The height of the cross was about 7 feet, perhaps slightly shorter.
Michael's face contorted into a grimace as he faced the literal first-ever torture device. He longed to escape, but his only solace was in his thoughts, convincing himself of his deservingness, regardless of the duration—whether it be a day, a week, a month, or a year.
The two angels hoisted him up, his head hanging downward, and he made no attempt to resist or fight back. His back pressed against the wood as they secured the ropes around his hands and feet, placing the chains on top to ensure his captivity.
"Thank you. Both of you may leave. I have someone to talk to," God declared.
The cross paled in comparison to God's towering figure. The creator, standing at 6 feet 9 inches, possessed a deep, godly voice.
Michael's siblings took flight, departing from the scene.
"Why did you do it? What was your plan, son? I truly wish you hadn't done that." The first two sentences carried a tone of pity, but the last one revealed God's genuine anger.
Michael remained silent, yearning to hide from everything and everyone, wishing he could curl into a ball or sprint away as fast as he could. Away from the prying eyes of every angel. Away, mentally and emotionally.
God's fury ignited. His own son had nothing to say about his near-deadly act against Lucifer, prompting God to deliver a punishing blow—a punch aimed at the betrayer, his palm striking with force.
The air was sucked out of Michael's lungs, constricting his throat and transferring the pain to his stomach, as if boiling charcoals tormented his insides.
He heard a sizzling sound, but it remained uncertain whether it was real or a figment of his imagination.
God struck Michael once more, this time targeting his ribs. Then, stepping back, He clasped his son's throat, choking him as he gasped for precious breath. Michael's vision blurred, and he slumped forward, drifting into a momentary state of unconsciousness. However, the pain, both physical and mental, lingered, etched deep within him.