Emily stopped in her tracks, her wings giving a faint, instinctive flutter as she caught a familiar voice. It was sharp, precise—Lute's, without a doubt. The Exorcist Commander's tone rarely softened, but now it carried an unusual warmth. Curious—and admittedly cautious—Emily crept closer, peering around the edge of the archway.
There, just beyond the bend, she saw them: Lute, standing firm, arms crossed, posture controlled as always. And opposite her stood Abel, his gaze fixed on the floor, hands fidgeting uncomfortably at his sides.
"I know things are complicated," Lute said softly, her voice a far cry from its usual steel. "But since Adam's death… you're all I have left of him. His legacy. His blood."
She took a careful step forward, her expression unreadable, though something mournful flickered behind her eyes. "I don't expect anything from you, Abel. I know I'm not your family. But I worked beside your father for a very long time. I loved him—" She hesitated for the briefest moment. "—in my own way. And even if I mean nothing to you… I'll protect you. Like my own."
Abel shifted uneasily, his shoulders tensing. The discomfort radiated off him in waves. He didn't speak, but his body said enough. He wasn't angry—but the closeness, the intensity of Lute's words—it clearly unsettled him.
Emily's heart twisted slightly. She hadn't expected this. Not from Lute. She ducked back behind the wall, biting her lip.
As Lute finally stepped away, Abel let out a soft sigh of relief, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible weight. He had never been entirely comfortable around her, but ever since his father's death, her presence had become suffocating. She had always been intense—loyal to a fault—but now, that loyalty had turned into something more. Paranoia, perhaps. An obsession with protecting what remained of Adam's legacy, as if Abel were some fragile relic that needed constant guarding.
He didn't know how to tell her to stop.
As he stood there, running a hand through his golden hair, another voice reached him—softer, more familiar.
"Hey, you okay?"
Abel turned to see Emily stepping out from behind a marble column. Her expression was gentle, but there was a knowing glint in her eyes. She had seen the exchange.
"Yeah," he answered, though his tone wasn't entirely convincing. He forced a small smile. "Just… y'know, Lute being Lute."
Emily frowned slightly but didn't push further. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned against the column.
"How'd it go with Pentious?" Abel asked.
He immediately noticed the way her wings twitched, a sign of lingering frustration. He had a feeling he already knew the answer.
Emily exhaled sharply, confirming his suspicion. "Metatron's stalling. The trial ended with a continuance."
Abel sighed. "I'm sorry."
Emily shook her head. "It's not your fault. And I'm not done yet." Her voice was firm, resolute. "I'm going to find a way to make them see reason. To make them understand that Spawn isn't the villain they think he is."
Abel studied her for a moment, noting the fire in her gaze. He had always admired that about Emily—her unwavering determination, her belief in doing what was right even when the rest of Heaven refused to see it.
"You really believe in him, don't you?" Abel asked.
Emily didn't hesitate. "Yeah, I do."
Abel nodded slowly. "Then I hope you can change their minds. Because if anyone can, it's you."
Emily offered him a grateful smile, but in the back of her mind, she knew this fight was far from over.
Abel tilted his head, watching Emily with a thoughtful expression. He trusted her judgment—he always had—but the way she spoke about Spawn carried more weight than simple belief. It was conviction.
"So," he asked softly, "what is it about him? What made you believe he's not as bad as everyone says?"
Emily paused, her gaze drifting downward for a moment. The floor beneath them gleamed with the soft golden hue of the celestial lights, but her mind was elsewhere—on a memory.
"I spoke with him," she said finally, lifting her eyes to meet Abel's. "Before the trial. Just briefly. He didn't have much time, and neither did I. But it was enough."
Abel's brow furrowed. "You talked to Spawn?"
Emily nodded. "Yeah. And what he told me… it wasn't the kind of thing someone fabricates to sound like a martyr. He didn't try to make excuses. He was honest. Blunt. He told me about his time in Hell. About how he didn't go looking for fights—only ever reacted to what was thrown at him. Protected people when he could. Fought when he had to. Never for fun. Never for glory."
She took a breath. "And sure, his methods are brutal. He's not like us. He's angry, and scarred, and heavy with pain. But never once did he mention hurting someone who didn't deserve it. I could feel it, Abel. That wasn't darkness I saw in him—it was regret. And the desire to do something good, even if the world kept calling him a monster."
Abel remained silent for a moment, absorbing her words. Then he nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
"I believe you," he said. "And maybe... maybe that's what scares them. Not that he's evil. But that he's proof Heaven might be wrong sometimes."
Emily looked at him, surprised by the clarity in his voice.
And for the first time in hours, she felt just a little less alone in the fight.
Abel stood quietly for a moment, the soft golden light of the corridor casting a faint halo around his white hair. His eyes, once filled with uncertainty, now held something stronger—resolve.
He looked to Emily, his posture squaring, jaw set.
"…Lute's not going to like this," he said, voice low but steady. "She'd never approve of me siding with Spawn. Not with the way she's always been."
Emily watched him carefully, her expression unreadable.
"But," Abel continued, stepping closer, "I believe you. And more than that—I feel that you're right. About him. About this whole thing. Heaven's too focused on rules and fear… and not enough on understanding."
His hand clenched at his side. "If Spawn really isn't a threat, if he's out there trying to do good, then we shouldn't be treating him like he's the enemy."
Emily's eyes softened. She didn't speak, but the look of gratitude she gave him said more than words ever could.
"I'll help you," Abel said, his voice firm. "Whatever you need. Just tell me what to do."
A small smile tugged at Emily's lips.
"Then we'll make them see," she said. "Together."
Suddenly, the sound of calm, deliberate footsteps.
Both Abel and Emily turned toward the source, eyes widening in surprise as a figure stepped around the corner. Saint Peter approached them with a steady gait. In his hands, he held the sacred book—The Register—bound in silver and marked with divine runes that pulsed faintly with heavenly energy.
Peter gave them a small, knowing smile.
"I'll support you," he said, voice warm but resolute. "In helping Spawn."
Emily blinked. "Peter…?"
Peter stopped before them, his hands resting on the book as if it were both shield and compass. "If there's one truth I've held onto through the rise and fall of empires, through every question heaven has ever asked—it's this book." He gently lifted it. "Not because it cannot be wrong… but because it does not lie."
Abel took a step closer, furrowing his brow. "What are you saying?"
Peter looked directly at them, his expression calm yet unwavering. "On the day of Spawn's trial… I saw it—his name."
He tapped the book with a single, reverent finger.
"Albert Simmons. His name was there. Not as a mistake. Not by accident. The book reads what lies within a soul—not the violence on their hands, not the darkness they've walked through—but the truth of who they are. And what I saw told me that Albert Simmons is anything but evil."
He lowered the book gently, as if sealing the truth within it.
"I don't know what Heaven intends next," Peter continued, "but I won't stand by while it ignores the soul it already accepted."
Emily's eyes welled with hope. Abel stared at the book as if seeing it for the first time.
With a renewed sense of purpose, the three stood united. Quiet at first—but no longer alone.
Saint Peter glanced down at the sacred book in his hands, his expression growing more contemplative.
"I'll be honest," he said softly, "there are still many things about Spawn—about Albert Simmons—that I don't fully understand." His thumb traced the edge of the glowing pages. "The book doesn't reveal its reasons, only its truths. But what struck me most… was where his name appeared. It wasn't just in the book. His name was at the very top of the list."
Abel's eyes widened. "The top? But… isn't that spot only meant for—?"
"Divine authority," Peter finished with a nod. "Entities of purest intent, beings tied directly to creation or touched by the will of God himself. I've only seen names there a handful of times… and never one that walked such a bloodied path."
Emily took a breath, steadying herself. "But if the book placed him there, then it must have seen something in him. Something we haven't yet."
Peter gave a small, solemn smile. "The book has no reason to lie. It does not deal in favoritism or fear. It simply reflects the soul as it is."
Abel looked between them, the confusion still evident in his eyes, but also something else—a glimmer of hope. "It doesn't make sense… but maybe it's not supposed to. Maybe what matters is that we're trying to do the right thing."
Emily nodded, her resolve strengthening. "And with you on our side, Peter, we've got a real chance."
Peter placed a reassuring hand on both of their shoulders. "Then let's not waste it."
On Earth, the headquarters of D.H.O.R.K.S. buzzed with unease. The air was tense, silent save for the hum of computers and low murmur of analysts exchanging data. At the heart of it all stood Agent Graves—the stoic, sharp-eyed leader of the organization. Her white hair, tied tightly back, contrasted starkly with the dim lighting of the command center, her face emotionless as her eyes flicked across dozens of glowing monitors.
Each screen displayed live feeds, thermal maps, spiritual radar scans, and celestial anomaly trackers—all of which had been combed over repeatedly since the spike in celestial energy. It had been sudden, massive, and impossible to ignore. And for Graves, it was completely unacceptable that they still had no answers.
She narrowed her eyes, watching one particularly glitchy pulse pattern replay for the third time. It didn't make sense. No entity, celestial or infernal, should've been able to create a spike like that and just disappear without leaving a trace.
With a swift motion, she tapped her communicator. "All field agents, report in. I want status updates. Anything unusual, I want it flagged immediately."
One by one, replies came in through the comms—agents scattered across major cities and potential hotspots.
"Unit 3, no signs of abnormal demonic or angelic activity in Sector 12."
"Unit 9, we've got residual readings in Nevada, but nothing concrete."
"Unit 5, clear skies, no movement."
Graves clenched her jaw. "Keep scanning. Double all observation points. I don't care if it's an insect glowing with holy light—if it blinks funny, I want to know about it."
She ended the call and turned back to the main screen, muttering to herself.
"Whatever caused that surge… is still out there."
Graves stood with her arms folded behind her back, the cold glow of the monitors casting pale light across her stern features. Her sharp eyes scanned the readouts—spectral charts, energy spikes, heat maps, and soul resonance logs—all offering different perspectives, yet none gave her what she needed. Answers.
D.H.O.R.K.S. was built to monitor, intercept, and neutralize demonic activity. Possessions, summonings, infernal breaches—they were the experts. But this? This was something else entirely.
Celestial energy wasn't just rare—it was mythological in magnitude. And what they'd detected that night had been massive. A radiant spike in the upper atmosphere that had lit up every satellite and scrying orb on the planet. It was so powerful that even their hardened scanners, designed to detect brimstone and hellfire, had nearly blown out from the intensity.
Graves exhaled slowly through her nose, her expression unreadable. "We're not equipped for this," she muttered to herself, almost begrudgingly. "This is angelic territory… not ours."
Still, that didn't mean they could back off. No, not with that kind of power stirring above them. The world couldn't afford complacency.
She turned to her second-in-command, a younger agent monitoring the satellite uplink. "Get me everything we've got on celestial events in the last hundred years. I want patterns, correlations, any possible known entities that could have caused this. Cross-reference them with theological texts and post-Infernal War case files."
The agent nodded and began working, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Graves stared at the central monitor—an enhanced image of the energy spike frozen in a split-second bloom of blinding gold and violet. Something had torn the veil that night. And whether it was divine or dangerous, they couldn't let it go unchecked.
"We're playing in someone else's arena now," she said under her breath. "But I'll be damned if we don't learn the rules."
Graves was poised to issue another command when her second-in-command rushed up to her, a file in hand. The urgency in the agent's step caught Graves's attention, and she raised an eyebrow as the report was placed on the desk before her.
"We might have something," the agent said, catching their breath. "It's... well, it's from a tabloid, so I almost didn't bring it to you, but—"
Graves didn't have time for hesitation. "Spit it out."
The agent cleared their throat and opened the file. "There's an article from a small-time paper out of L.A. It's about a homeless man's encounter with something he called The Guardian—some kind of holy warrior, supposedly. He described this figure as dealing out 'divine justice' in one of the rougher parts of the city."
Graves narrowed her eyes. "Go on."
The agent shifted uncomfortably, clearly expecting her to dismiss it outright. "Well, it sounds like the usual urban legend nonsense. A shadowy figure appeared out of nowhere, took down a group of armed drug dealers in seconds, and then vanished without a trace. The witness swears the guy had burning green eyes and moved like nothing he'd ever seen before."
The agent let out a short chuckle and shook their head. "Honestly, it's probably just some costumed vigilante. You know how these stories get exaggerated. Could be a hoax for all we know."
Graves, however, didn't laugh. Instead, she took the file and scanned the article with a cold, calculating stare. She didn't believe in coincidences, and she certainly didn't believe in ignoring potential leads. The celestial energy surge they detected hadn't come out of nowhere. Something had entered Earth's domain that night—something powerful.
She tapped a finger against the paper. "You think it's a joke."
The agent hesitated. "Well, I mean—"
"I don't," Graves interrupted, voice sharp as a blade. "That energy surge wasn't some fluke. Whatever caused it is here, walking among us. If this Guardian is real, then he might be the key to finding out what we're dealing with."
The agent stiffened. "You want us to track this down?"
Graves nodded. "We're deploying more teams to L.A. immediately. I want boots on the ground. I want surveillance on every gang-infested slum and back alley where this 'Guardian' was sighted. If this thing is connected to the surge, we will find it."
She closed the file with a snap and looked the agent dead in the eye. "This is now our top priority."
In the grimy back alley of a downtown L.A. district, the buzz of neon signs flickered overhead, casting broken light over cracked pavement and dumpsters that reeked of rot and piss. Barbie Wire leaned against a rusted fire escape ladder, her human disguise immaculate—long hair in a tight ponytail, thick eyeliner, fishnet sleeves, and a faux-leather jacket patched with punk band logos. She held a vape in one hand and a small baggie of neon-pink pills in the other, waiting for the next strung-out wanderer to stumble her way.
This had been her turf for months now. In and out, deals quick and dirty. Humans were easy marks—curious, desperate, or just plain dumb. And up until recently, she hadn't had much trouble.
But tonight felt different. The air was heavier. Quieter.
Word had been spreading like wildfire. Some new freakshow calling themselves The Guardian had gone berserk just a few blocks away, tearing through a handful of other dealers like they were made of paper. No one knew exactly what happened, but what was left behind sure wasn't pretty—charred bodies, twisted steel, and a smell that not even hell could imitate.
Barbie shifted uncomfortably, eyes scanning the shadows at the edge of the alley. She kept her cool on the outside—after all, looking jumpy in her line of work was like painting a target on your back—but on the inside, a knot of unease was slowly winding tighter.
Was someone targeting dealers? Was this Guardian freak some holy nutjob with a vendetta against Hell's interests?
She blew out a plume of smoke and muttered to herself, "Just what I fuckin' need. Some self-righteous bastard with a savior complex makin' things hard for the rest of us."
Her grip on the baggie tightened, knuckles whitening. Maybe she needed to move shop. Maybe she needed to call in a favor or two—just in case things escalated.
Because if this Guardian really was what the whispers claimed—celestial, divine, or worse—then Barbie knew this game was about to change. And not in her favor.
Barbie figured that laying low for a few nights wouldn't hurt. She didn't like it—being forced to scurry like some scared rat—but self-preservation always beat pride. Too many whispers. Too much smoke without fire. And Barbie had been in the game long enough to know when to step out of the blast radius.
With a sigh, she took one last drag from her vape, the sweet chemical flavor burning the back of her throat before she exhaled into the air. "Guess it's time to ghost this dump," she muttered to herself, stuffing the vape into her jacket and pocketing the rest of her stash.
She turned on her heel and started down the cracked sidewalk, heels tapping with purpose. As she rounded the corner of the alley and merged into the thinning crowd of the city night, her shoulder clipped into someone passing by.
"Watch where you're goin', dumbass," Barbie snapped, not even bothering to glance their way.
The girl she bumped into didn't even flinch. Barely acknowledged the impact. She mumbled a quiet, "Sorry," in a soft, detached tone, as though the apology was just a reflex more than anything sincere.
Barbie paused for a second, her brow quirking just slightly as she gave the girl a sidelong glance. Pale skin, messy hair tucked under a hoodie, and a tired, far-off look in her eyes. She didn't seem like a threat. Just another ghost drifting through the city. Barbie scoffed and shook her head, moving on without another word.
But behind her, Octavia stood still for a moment longer, watching Barbie disappear into the night. She blinked slowly, pulling the hood tighter around her face, and walked off in the opposite direction—silent, purposeful, and with something unreadable flickering in her gaze.
Octavia continued down the street, her head low and hands buried deep in the front pocket of her oversized hoodie. The hem swayed slightly with each step, brushing against her thighs in rhythm with the sounds of distant traffic and city murmurs.
Emblazoned across the front of her hoodie was a bold, stylized image of Spawn—his red cape flared wide behind him, glowing green eyes cutting through the dark fabric like embers. The image had faded a little, but the design was still clear. Iconic. Reverent.
It had been a gift to herself, back when she first learned about him—about the way he fought, the chaos he brought, and the strange kind of justice he delivered. Octavia had admired him in the way a child might admire a storybook anti-hero. Dangerous, yes. But with a purpose. A direction. Something she'd often felt lacking in her own life.
These days, though, it almost felt like a memorial piece. No one had seen Spawn since fuck knows when. Rumors came and went, whispers of sightings, but nothing concrete. Nothing solid. He'd vanished without a trace, and the silence he left behind felt heavier than his presence ever had.
Still, Octavia wore the hoodie like armor. A quiet tribute. A reminder that, even if the world forgot him, she hadn't.
She glanced up briefly at the overcast sky, her breath fogging in the air. Then she kept walking—alone, but not without purpose.
Octavia's fingers brushed against the worn edges of the photo in her hoodie pocket, the corners slightly curled from how often she took it out just to look at it. She didn't need to pull it out now—she knew it by heart. It was a picture of Spawn. And in the lower right corner was his symbol.
She remembered the way she had asked for it—awkwardly, the words tumbling out faster than she'd intended. She had expected him to scoff, maybe tell her to grow up. But he hadn't. He took the picture, looked at it for a moment, then branded it and handed it back. No judgment. No mockery. Just… quiet acceptance.
Octavia still cringed a little at the memory—how giddy she'd felt. Like some fangirl meeting her dark idol. But the feeling she had then? That hadn't faded. Not even a little.
Meeting Spawn had been intense. The kind of moment that lived behind her eyes like a flickering candle in a dark room. He was terrifying, brutal, and carried the weight of something far older than any of the broken souls wandering Earth. But to her… he had been strangely gentle. Not soft, not kind in the traditional sense—but intentional. Like he saw her, understood something in her most people didn't even try to grasp.
And the thing she admired most—what made him feel larger than life—was that he never pretended to be something he wasn't. He never sugarcoated his anger or masked his pain. He was raw. Real. In a world where everyone seemed to wear some kind of mask, Spawn was as genuine as it got.
Octavia closed her hand around the photo, squeezing it gently like a promise.
Wherever you are, she thought, I haven't forgotten you.
The memory played over and over in Octavia's mind like a film she couldn't stop rewinding. She could still feel the panic in her chest when she'd arrived at the Hazbin Hotel, breathless, desperate, the words tumbling out before anyone could even greet her properly.
She had tried to warn him. Tried to get there in time.
But it was already too late.
Charlie had met her in the lobby, her expression gentle, but heavy with sorrow. "He's gone," she'd said. "We don't know where he is."
Octavia hadn't processed it at first. She just stood there, her face pale, her heart racing, like maybe she hadn't heard it right. Maybe Charlie meant something else. Maybe he was just hiding. Resting. Planning.
But deep down, Octavia knew the truth.
The shock had hit like a punch to the ribs. Her hands clenched at her sides, her breath shallow and fast. And then—without a word—she turned and stormed out of the hotel, fury and despair wrapped tightly around her like a second skin.
No one had tried to stop her. Maybe they knew she needed the space. Maybe they were too wrapped in their own grief. Or maybe… they just didn't understand how much he meant to her.
She hadn't stopped walking until the city blurred around her and her legs ached. But nothing she did that day—not the screaming into alleyway shadows or the tears she didn't want to admit she cried—could change the simple, brutal truth:
Spawn was gone. And she hadn't made it in time.
Ever since that awful day, Octavia had done everything in her power to stay away from home.
The thought of seeing her mother—or worse, her uncle—turned her stomach. She could barely stand the sight of either of them without feeling a surge of rage twist in her chest. Two selfish, conniving liars, playing some divine political game like it was all just strategy, like lives didn't matter. Like he didn't matter.
They sold out Spawn. And Octavia would never forgive them for it.
So she stopped staying home. Stopped returning messages.
Now, she drifted through Earth like a ghost with no purpose. Hoodie pulled low, eyes cast down, her wings hidden. She didn't have a plan. Didn't have a place to go. She just… walked. From alleyways to city blocks, from rooftops to sidewalks, drifting through the human world like someone hoping to forget the weight of her own reality.
But she could never forget.
Every streetlight reflection. Every shadow. Every worn mural of long-forgotten vigilantes. They all reminded her of him. Of the man who fought with everything he had, not for glory, not for recognition—but because it was right.
And they threw him away.
Octavia clenched the photo in her pocket tighter as she walked. She didn't know where he was. But if there was even the slightest chance he was still out there…
She'd find him. Somehow.
These days, the most Octavia did in terms of going "home" was sleeping—and even that had become rare.
On the nights she did return, it was only to grab a few things, maybe shower if her mother wasn't around. Most nights, she just drifted, crashing anywhere she could.
Tonight felt no different. The sky above Los Angeles had dipped into an oily navy, with clouds drifting like heavy thoughts, and the chill in the air promised rain. She tugged her hoodie tighter around her and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, glancing up and down the quiet block.
She needed a place to sleep. Somewhere quiet. Empty. Out of the way.
And then she saw it.
An old cathedral stood at the corner of the street, weathered stone and shattered stained-glass windows painting it as long-forgotten. Its front doors hung slightly ajar, one creaking in the breeze like a breath held too long.
"Perfect."