"Nice to see you, too," Angel said, voice dry but laced with old bitterness. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers twitching. "You gonna ask how I've been or just start with the usual family lovefest?"
Arackniss's frown deepened, if that was even possible. "Don't need to ask. You're doing the same shit you were doing when we were alive. Playing dress-up. Whoring around. Acting like a damn cartoon."
Angel flinched, but only slightly. He knew that tone. That disappointment Arackniss never even tried to hide.
"Takes one to know one," Angel shot back, though his voice lacked its usual venom. The sting of hearing his brother's voice again cut deeper than he expected. "So what, you been lurking around here long, or just poppin' up to make sure I know I still ain't good enough?"
Arackniss tilted his head, expression unreadable behind those soulless red eyes. "You're the one dragging our name through the gutter, Annie. I just came to see how far it's sunk."
That hit.
But Angel didn't let it show.
Instead, he straightened, rolling his shoulders and forcing a crooked smirk onto his lips. "Well, then congrats, bro. Welcome to the gutter. Hope the view lives up to your standards."
The silence that followed was thick. Neither brother moved, both wrapped in old wounds and the weight of everything left unsaid. The street noise around them felt distant, like they were in a bubble of years-long resentment ready to burst.
Angel's grin faltered.
"…Why now?" he finally asked, quieter. "Why show up now?"
Arackniss didn't answer right away. Just looked at him. Studied him like he always did—like a puzzle he couldn't figure out but never stopped trying to solve.
And then, coldly:
"Because I heard your little redemption project is falling apart. Figured I'd see how far you'd fall this time."
Angel's breath hitched. Just for a second.
And then the grin came back—more forced this time, more bitter. "Well, I got bad news for ya, big bro. I ain't fallen yet."
He turned without another word and started walking, not fast, but not looking back.
Angel's shoes clicked sharply against the sidewalk as he walked, his long legs slicing through the cold air of the alley with restrained agitation. He didn't want to give Arackniss the satisfaction of one more second. Of one more anything.
But then—
"Go ahead and walk away. Just like you always do."
Angel stopped.
His back stiffened, his fists clenched in his pockets so tightly that his claws began to dig into the flesh of his palms.
Arackniss's voice was a blade, each word measured, deliberate, and sharpened by old contempt. "You know, our old man was right about you. Always said you'd end up exactly where you belonged. Worthless. Pathetic. A walking punchline."
Angel didn't turn around right away. His chest rose and fell once, then again, slower. Controlled. But fury buzzed in his ears.
Then, slowly, he turned on his heel—his face tight, his eyes burning behind his usual smug expression now twisted into something rawer. Meaner.
"What the hell are you even doing here, huh?" Angel's voice cracked like a whip, fury tightly coiled in every syllable. "I've been down here for decades. Decades. And not once did I come looking for you. Not once. Because I didn't care. Because I knew whatever you were doing, it sure as hell didn't involve me. So what? You come crawling outta the woodwork now just to spit on me?"
Arackniss didn't flinch. Just met his brother's glare with that same unreadable, unbothered stare.
"I heard you've been making… interesting friends," he said simply. "The kind that have the whole damn city talking. The princess of Hell… and someone else."
Angel's eyes narrowed. He didn't need to guess.
"You mean Al," he said. "Spawn."
Arackniss gave the faintest shrug.
Angel took a step forward, jabbing a finger toward his brother's chest. "Yeah. That's right. We're friends. And you wanna know what he did for me? More than you ever did. He got me outta that contract with Valentino. Him. Not you. Not dad. Not any of you."
There was silence for a moment. Arackniss's face barely shifted.
Then he scoffed.
"Yeah. And why'd you need bailing out in the first place?" he asked, tone full of venomous mockery. "Because you signed your life away like an idiot. No one forced you to crawl into that slimeball's lap. That was all you, Angel."
Angel's jaw locked, his voice dropping low—dangerously low.
"You think I wanted that life?"
"You chose it."
"I was desperate. I was alone. And you didn't do a damn thing to stop it." His voice trembled with anger, years of frustration bubbling to the surface. "None of you did. You just stood there, watched me sink, and judged me for it."
Arackniss stared back, silent.
"You wanna talk about pathetic?" Angel snarled. "At least I clawed my way out. What the hell have you done?"
Their eyes locked in a standoff thick with unspoken history. The air between them felt like it could snap with the weight of everything they'd never said.
Angel scoffed bitterly, shaking his head as if trying to physically fling off the weight of Arackniss's words.
"You know what?" he growled, voice thick with years of resentment. "I don't give a shit what you've done. Go ahead—judge me. Mock me. Play the 'you brought it on yourself' card all night long. But at the end of the day, at least I'm trying to be better."
His eyes locked on Arackniss, fierce and unrelenting.
"At least I've got the guts to want somethin' different. Can't say the same for you, huh?"
He turned sharply, shoes clicking as he stormed off again, heart hammering in his chest—
"I never said you were wrong."
Angel stopped. Again.
Arackniss's voice was quieter now. Still cold, but... with something else threaded through it. Weariness. Frustration. Maybe even... regret?
Angel turned halfway, just enough to see his brother still standing in that alley, arms crossed tightly, fedora pulled low—but his expression softer. Tired.
"Maybe," Arackniss said, "you're not the only one who's tired of this shithole. Of Hell. Of all of it."
Angel blinked.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked, voice lower, uncertain now.
Arackniss shrugged stiffly. "It means maybe I'm starting to see why you wanted out. Why you clung to all that redemption bullshit like it was a lifeline. Maybe…"
There was a pause.
Then Arackniss added, almost under his breath, "Maybe I want a way out too."
Angel stared at him—silent, stunned. That… he hadn't expected. Not from him.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there wasn't anger or mockery between them.
Just two broken men. Brothers. Both tired of Hell. Both wondering if maybe they didn't have to be stuck in it forever.
Angel folded his arms, narrowing his eyes slightly.
"…You serious?"
Arackniss looked away, but gave the faintest nod.
Angel sighed through his nose, rubbing his temple. "Fuck. Okay. You wanna talk about it, fine. But not here. Come by the hotel tomorrow night. You try anything stupid, I'll throw you out myself."
And with that, Angel turned once again, heading back to the hotel.
Angel paused at the edge of the street, where the shadows gave way to the soft, flickering glow of the city's streetlights. His back still to Arackniss, he stood still for a breath—then two.
And without turning around, he said coldly, "You're lucky it ain't me who decides who gets to stay at that hotel."
His voice cut through the quiet like a blade, low and bitter.
"Because if it was, I wouldn't even answer the goddamn door."
Behind him, the silence lingered—but only for a moment.
Then Arackniss, dry as ever, muttered just loud enough to carry, "Good thing it isn't. Knowing you, you'd probably screw that up too and bring more drama than you already do."
Angel's jaw clenched, but he didn't stop walking this time.
He just raised a middle finger over his shoulder without looking back and said, "See you tomorrow, jackass."
And then he disappeared into the city lights, leaving the alley—and his brother—in the dark.
The cathedral still echoed with every creak of the wind, every groan of its old bones, yet in one quiet corner, the shadows felt warmer. More alive. Octavia had truly started carving out a space for herself—nothing grand, just a cot, a sleeping bag, and the small comforts Spawn had gathered. Above her makeshift bed, the photo hung proudly: the picture she'd once nervously asked him to sign, now marked with his unmistakable symbol like a personal seal of protection.
She didn't ask where he got the cot or the food. Didn't need to. She knew his methods weren't exactly conventional… but she also knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her. That mattered more.
Now she sat perched on one of the broken old pews, her legs pulled up to her chest, a can of lukewarm ravioli in hand and a spork between her fingers. She talked between bites, voice soft but steady.
"I remember when I was little," she said, glancing toward the rafters where Spawn sat partially silhouetted in the stained-glass light, "my mom used to drag me to all these awful parties. Nobles, Goetias, you name it. Everyone pretending to be someone they weren't. Fake smiles, fake compliments, fake everything."
She stabbed another bite, chewed, and swallowed.
"I used to just… hide under the buffet tables. Read books I snuck in my sleeve. Sometimes I'd just stare at people's shoes and try to guess who they really were based on that." She gave a small laugh. "Spoiler alert—most of them were still assholes."
Spawn didn't interrupt. He rarely did. He was just… there. A quiet, towering presence listening without judgment, his glowing green eyes cast toward her but never pressing.
"It's funny," she added, waving the spoon vaguely. "This place is probably the most rundown hellhole I've ever stayed in, but it's the most… comfortable I've felt in a long time."
She looked toward him then, really looked. "I don't know if it's the silence, or the way the sunlight hits the dust just right, or the fact that you're doing all this to take care of me—even when you didn't have to."
She paused, then offered a small, genuine smile.
"…Thanks."
There was a long moment of silence, the kind that felt full rather than empty.
From the shadows, Spawn finally replied in his gruff, low voice, "...You're welcome."
Octavia had just set her empty can aside, the last bite of ravioli long gone, when she heard Spawn's voice from above again—gravelly, calm, and laced with the sort of quiet weight only someone who'd lived through hell, both literal and metaphorical, could carry.
"…What're your mother and uncle like?"
She didn't answer immediately. For a moment, she just stared down at the floor between her feet, her fingers absently playing with the hem of her sleeve. But something in his tone made her feel like she could be honest—really honest.
"They're… awful," she said, blunt and unflinching. "Classist as hell—pun not intended. My mom, Stella, she talks like being born royal means she's better than everyone else. Like if you weren't part of the Goetia bloodline, you were just dirt under her heels."
Spawn said nothing, only shifted slightly above, the faint rustle of his wings brushing against the stone pillars.
"My uncle, Andrealphus, he's worse," Octavia continued, voice quieter now. "He's the brains behind her venom. Everything's a chess game with him—he doesn't even talk to people unless he thinks there's something to gain. Emotion? Empathy? He left that shit in the womb."
She exhaled slowly, rubbing her temple.
"And it's not just them, either. The whole Goetia family's obsessed with legacy and image and status. All of them. They look down on demons who weren't born noble. Hell, they look down on other nobles too if they're not 'proper.' It's exhausting."
There was a long pause before Spawn finally dropped from the rafters, landing with a heavy thud beside the pew. His divine wings pulled tight behind him, the glow from his eyes catching in the fractured light of the old stained glass.
He looked at her—not with pity, but understanding. And then, after a beat, he offered something few in her life ever had.
"Lemme give you a nickel's worth of free advice," he said, folding his arms. "If you're ever in real trouble—the kind where you've got no one else to turn to? Don't go to a rich bastard. Ever."
Octavia tilted her head slightly, brow furrowed.
"Go to a poor person," Spawn continued. "They'll help you. Might not have much, but they get it. They know what it's like to be kicked while you're down. And they'll give you the last dollar in their pocket just so you don't feel like you're alone."
He let that hang in the air for a moment.
Octavia's lips curled into the faintest smile. It wasn't joy—more like a grim appreciation.
"…You know, that explains why my mom never helped me with anything that actually mattered."
Spawn grunted softly. "Exactly."
They sat in silence for a while longer, the quiet not awkward but reflective. Just two people from very different worlds, both scarred in their own ways, finding an unlikely comfort in each other's honesty.
The cathedral creaked softly as the wind pushed against its aging frame, but neither of them moved. Octavia leaned forward on the pew, her fingers now nervously picking at a loose thread in her sleeve.
Then, with a quiet breath, she broke the silence.
"…It's just kinda messed up, you know?" she muttered, her voice low but biting with years of pent-up bitterness. "How someone I've only known for maybe a few days treats me better than… than anyone I've known my whole life."
She didn't look at him when she said it, but the crack in her voice was clear.
"All those years in that palace, in that so-called 'noble family,' being told who to be, what to say, how to act. Never being seen for who I really am. And then you—this terrifying, cape-less, winged cryptid just shows up and actually listens. Actually gives a shit."
She leaned back, sighing sharply through her nose. "It's pathetic."
Spawn didn't respond right away. His glowing green eyes were fixed on her, unreadable as ever. But she could feel that he was considering her words—not brushing them off, not judging. Just… absorbing them.
Finally, in a low, even tone, he spoke.
"I can't speak for everyone," he said, voice steady, gravel rasping under each word. "But I do this because I hate seeing people suffer when they don't deserve it. And especially not someone your age."
Octavia blinked, the lump in her throat rising a bit more than she expected.
"You didn't ask for this life," Spawn continued, "and you didn't earn the bullshit that came with it. You got thrown into a system built to crush people who don't play its game."
His eyes dimmed slightly, thoughtful. "I know what it's like to be surrounded by people who only see you for what they want from you. Who try to bend you into something you're not. So if I can keep even one person from feeling like they've got no one in their corner…"
He paused, then added simply, "Then I've done something right."
Octavia didn't say anything at first. She just stared at the floor, letting the words sink in. Letting herself feel them.
Then, almost too quiet to hear, she murmured, "Thanks… Al."
For a brief moment, something soft flickered across Spawn's face. A quiet understanding.
"…You're welcome, kid."
Octavia sat quietly after thanking him, her gaze fixed on the floor, fingers laced loosely in her lap. The weight of the conversation lingered, but it wasn't heavy anymore—it felt grounding, like they'd both unearthed something real in all the ruin around them.
Still, curiosity tugged at her thoughts.
She hesitated, then lifted her eyes toward him. "Can I ask you something else?" Her voice was softer now, cautious but earnest.
Spawn didn't move, but the glow in his eyes shifted toward her—silent acknowledgment.
"…How did you end up like this?" she asked, motioning subtly toward him. "I mean… everything. The power, the reputation, being Spawn. What happened to you?"
At first, there was nothing. Just a long, weighted pause. And for a moment, Octavia thought she'd overstepped. Her chest tensed as she opened her mouth to apologize—
"It started with betrayal," Spawn said suddenly, voice low and cold, like a door creaking open into a long-forgotten place.
Octavia blinked, surprised but attentive.
"I was a soldier," he continued. "Worked for a government agency—black ops, no name, no oversight. Did things most people only have nightmares about. I thought I was making a difference… protecting the people I loved."
He paused, the memory biting deeper than he showed. "Then they burned me... literally."
Octavia's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't speak. She listened.
"I was in Hell before I knew it. And that's when he showed up—Malebolgia. A demon lord. One of the worst."
His fists clenched slightly, knuckles tight through the leather of his gauntlets.
"He offered me a deal: power, life again… in exchange for my soul. All so I could see my wife, Wanda, one last time."
Octavia's heart twisted. "You… you did all that for her?"
"Every bit of it," Spawn said, his voice rough, raw. "And when I came back… she'd moved on. Five years had passed. She had a daughter. A new life. One without me."
He looked away then, into the ruined cathedral shadows, wings folding tighter behind him.
"That's when I realized the cost. What I'd traded. I wasn't Al Simmons anymore. I was something else. Something twisted."
Octavia stared at him, silent and stunned.
"But even after that," Spawn added quietly, "I still tried to do good. To make sure what happened to me didn't happen to anyone else. I've lost a lot… but I won't let that be for nothing."
For a long time, neither of them said anything.
Then Octavia, her voice small but resolute, said, "That's… heavy. But it makes sense now. Why you fight like you do. Why you care like you do."
Spawn looked at her again, his gaze softer than before.
"I was born from pain, kid," he murmured. "But I'll be damned if that's the only thing I leave behind."
Octavia had leaned forward during Spawn's story, eyes wide and brimming with something more than curiosity—respect. He wasn't just a monster with a tragic past. He was real. A person who had made hard choices, paid the price, and still stood for something.
But something still lingered in her thoughts.
She glanced toward him again, voice tinged with cautious awe. "Okay… but how'd you get the divine power? I mean, I'm not some kind of pact expert or anything, but I do know enough to say that Heaven doesn't just give their power out. Especially not to someone from Hell."
Spawn didn't answer right away.
He stepped away from the pew, his boots echoing lightly against the cracked stone floor. The dying light from the stained glass caught the edges of his wings, casting a faint, shimmering silhouette behind him.
"You're right," he said at last, his voice low, measured. "Hell didn't give it to me. And Heaven damn sure didn't, either."
Octavia blinked. "Then… what did?"
He turned his glowing gaze toward her. "Something older. Something greater."
The weight in his voice made her sit up straighter.
"I didn't understand it at first," he continued. "I still don't fully. But in that moment—in the place between places, where time and space don't mean a damn thing—I was… touched. Changed."
He exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "It was like standing before the concept of creation itself. Not a god. Not a demon. Something beyond all of it. Something ancient, eternal… kind."
Octavia's brows pulled together. "…You're not just talking about some celestial power, are you?"
"No," he said simply. "I'm talking about something even Heaven doesn't fully understand. Not angels. Not demons. Not even the oldest beings in Hell."
A silence hung between them.
"…Then who was it?" Octavia asked.
Spawn turned back toward the altar, wings folding gently against his back. "They called themselves the Mother of Existence."
Octavia's didn't know much about theology beyond the usual Heaven and Hell dynamics, but even she'd heard stories of something—or someone—greater than the divine throne. A presence even angels weren't fully sure of.
"They saw me," Spawn said, almost to himself now. "Not just what I'd become. Not just the sins. They saw everything. And still chose to help me."
He looked back at Octavia, his voice solemn. "That power… it's not mine by right. It's a gift. One I didn't ask for. But I'll carry it—because I know what it means to be forgotten by both Heaven and Hell."
Octavia stared at him, silent, her thoughts racing.
The peaceful stillness inside the cathedral shattered like glass underfoot.
A voice, sharp and laced with venom, cut through the quiet like a dagger.
"You can't be serious! I've got bills to pay too, y'know!"
Spawn and Octavia both looked toward the window at the sudden commotion. From their perch, the broken glass offered just enough of a view to glimpse the street below.
Outside, standing under the flickering orange glow of a dying streetlamp, was a woman, fire in her eyes and a vape in her hand.
She stood nose-to-nose with a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a cheap jacket and a smug expression, arms crossed like he enjoyed watching her squirm.
"I bring in more money than half your little runners combined!" Barbie shouted, jabbing a finger into the man's chest. "And now you wanna pull that much off the top? I need to eat too!"
The man didn't flinch. He simply looked at her with cold indifference. "Maybe next time, you won't be late handing over the cut to the boss."
Barbie's fists clenched at her sides, jaw tight, the ember on her cigarette flaring with the sharp inhale of building rage. "You know damn well I had to relocate!"
"That sounds like your problem," the man said flatly. Then, with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes, he added, "If you got a complaint, I'll be more than happy to take you to see the boss in person."
Barbie went quiet.
The fire in her posture evaporated in an instant. Her shoulders stiffened, and she took a half-step back. "No… that's not necessary."
Spawn narrowed his eyes from the shadows of the cathedral's rafters, observing every tense muscle in Barbie's body, every flicker of fear that hadn't been there a moment ago. The way she shut down at the offer to "see the boss" told him plenty.
Barbie slumped against the graffiti-tagged wall as the man walked off, his boots echoing down the street like a final insult. Her cigarette now hung loosely from her lips, the fire in her earlier fury cooled to simmering disdain. She muttered under her breath, "Already sick of this creep…"
Across the cathedral, Octavia pulled a face, arms folded as she stared out the window. "Just another two-bit dealer in the wrong part of town," she murmured, unimpressed. "You'd think they'd learn after what happened to the last ones."
But Spawn wasn't looking at the man anymore.
His eyes were fixed on Barbie.
Something didn't sit right—not just with her words, but with her. Her aura didn't align with the human exterior. It was subtle, masked well enough to fool the average eye. But he saw it. He always could.
The faint flicker of infernal energy beneath her skin. The way her steps carried just a bit too much weight for a mortal body. The shimmer of illusion magic wrapped around her like a second skin.
"She's not human," Spawn said quietly, almost to himself. "That's an imp."
Octavia blinked. "Wait—seriously? Her?"
Spawn turned away from the window, already moving toward the shadowed hallway that led to the cathedral's rear exit.
Octavia stood. "Hey—what are you doing?"
He stopped only briefly at the doorframe, the glow in his eyes flaring faintly.
"Stay put," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I'll handle it."
Octavia didn't argue. The tone in his voice said there was no room for negotiation.
She watched him disappear into the darkness of the corridor, her heart thudding softly in her chest. Whoever that woman was… something told her this was going to be more than just a conversation.
Barbie let out an exaggerated groan, her head tilting back as she exhaled a thick plume of artificially sweetened cherry vapor. "Ugh, this gig blows…" she muttered, her voice raspy with disdain. "Next creep that tells me I'm late's gettin' a vape shoved up his—"
Clink.
A faint, metallic clatter echoed from just around the corner. Sharp. Deliberate. Too deliberate.
Her brows furrowed. She turned slightly, peering down the edge of the alley with narrowed eyes. "What the hell…?" she muttered.
Her grip on her vape tightened, but she didn't make a move yet. Her attention was locked entirely on the corner ahead, heart picking up just slightly. Was it that guy again? One of his goons, maybe?
That was her mistake.
She was watching the wrong direction.
From the shadows behind her, there was no warning—only a faint ripple of movement and the snap of something slicing through the air.
A cold, metallic chain shot out like a serpent striking its prey, wrapping tight around her neck in an instant. Her vape clattered to the pavement.
Barbie's eyes went wide. She tried to scream—but nothing came out. The chain constricted too fast.
And then—YANK.
She was ripped backward off her feet, disappearing into the shadows of the alley before she could even dig her heels in.
The street was silent once more. Only the cherry-flavored mist hung in the air, slowly dissipating under the streetlamp.
The dim glow from the cheap overhead light flickered every so often, casting faint, unflattering shadows across the modest Imp City apartment. It was a far cry from the lavish palace Stolas had once called home—where walls were draped in fine velvet and stars danced across enchanted ceilings. Now, he sat hunched on a second-hand couch that sagged slightly beneath him, one of Blitzo's old throw blankets pulled across his lap.
It wasn't the loss of silk sheets or golden chandeliers that gnawed at him.
It was her.
Octavia.
His daughter. His pride. His little star.
And now, she wouldn't even speak to him.
Stolas had replayed the memory more times than he could count—her words etched in his mind like scars. She didn't want to talk. She needed him gone.
It hurt in a way that no loss of luxury ever could. Worse than being humiliated. Worse than the whispers of nobles mocking his fall from grace.
Because this wasn't political. This wasn't courtly.
This was his daughter.
And he'd failed her.
He stared at the coffee table in front of him, where an old photo of Octavia sat tucked in the corner of the frame Blitzo had slapped together to "brighten up the place." She was smiling in it. Probably years ago. Back before all of this.
Before he let her down.
Stolas reached out, running a talon gently across her image, as though the touch could bring her back. "I'm sorry, my star…" he whispered, voice thick with regret.
The apartment was quiet—Blitzo and Loona had been gone for ages. Likely out on another long stretch of searching for the Hellspawn that had somehow wormed his way into their chaotic little world. Stolas didn't ask where they were going anymore.
Not because he didn't care.
But because he couldn't find the energy to bother.
And in that silence, the aching loneliness pressed in again, heavier than the dark.
Stolas leaned back on the couch, his eyes staring blankly at the cracked ceiling above. His claws fidgeted absentmindedly with the edge of the blanket, the fibers fraying more with each slow pull.
He could still hear her voice.
Not the younger, softer one from bedtime stories and lullabies—but the sharp, heartbroken tone after the fight. When she finally said the words he feared for years. The words that broke him more than any punishment from the Ars Goetia ever could.
It was like being stabbed through the chest with his own feathers.
He hadn't even tried to defend himself at first. He was too stunned. Too ashamed.
She'd found the pills.
She thought they were because of her.
And gods, the look on her face.
He had tried to speak. To tell her no. To tell her she was the only thing that really mattered from that shell of a marriage.
But she didn't want to hear it.
Not after everything. Not after all the times he failed her. When she needed stability, he gave her chaos. When she needed a father, he was busy chasing Blitzo.
And worst of all, he hadn't even realized how deeply he'd hurt her until it was too late.
His breath hitched, and he sat forward slowly, placing his face in his hands. The tips of his claws brushed against the feathers around his eyes, already damp.
"She was the only good thing that came from any of it," he murmured. "The only light in that house… and I dimmed it."
He never wanted to hurt her. Never wanted to turn into the thing he loathed—cold, distant, obsessed with status. But somehow, in trying to escape his pain, he had just passed it down.
And now… the silence was his only company.
The shrill buzz of Stolas's phone vibrated across the armrest, jolting him from his spiral.
With a sigh, he wiped his eyes and glanced at the screen. The contact name alone made his feathers bristle.
CUNT
—calling…
He pinched the bridge of his beak with a tired groan before swiping to answer. "What do you want, Stella?"
Her voice exploded through the phone like a hurricane of ego and spite. "Where is she?"
Stolas blinked, sitting up straighter. "Who are you talking about?"
"Octavia, you brainless twat! I haven't seen her in days."
That stopped him cold.
The phone nearly slipped from his hand. "What do you mean you haven't seen her in days? She lives with you!"
There was a beat of silence. Then came the smugness—Stella's favorite weapon.
"That tone told me everything I needed."
Stolas's grip tightened, knuckles whitening beneath his feathers. His voice was low, laced with panic. "When was the last time you actually checked on her?"
"Ugh, I don't know! Monday? Maybe Tuesday morning? She was in one of her usual moods, sulking like she does. She left, and I assumed she'd be back," Stella drawled, entirely unconcerned. "I figured she was off brooding about whatever you did this time."
Stolas stood up, pacing now, his wings twitching involuntarily. "And you didn't think to call until now?!"
"I had a spa day, Stolas. You know how tense I get dealing with you and your baggage."
His voice dropped into a snarl. "You insufferable, self-absorbed—"
"Relax," Stella interrupted with a cruel giggle. "She's probably just throwing a tantrum. She'll be back when she wants something."
But Stolas wasn't listening anymore.
His heart was racing, wings trembling slightly. If Octavia wasn't with her… and she wasn't here… then where the hell was she?
And worse—why hadn't she reached out to anyone?
"Stella, if anything has happened to her…" he growled.
"Oh, spare me the dramatics. If she is missing, it's probably because she got sick of all of your bullshit."
Stolas's hand clenched around the phone, feathers bristling with fury. His voice crackled with venom as he spat, "How the hell do you just not know where she is, Stella? She's our daughter—"
"Oh, now you care?" Stella snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't act like you've suddenly grown a conscience, Stolas. You made it perfectly clear who mattered more when you chose that clown over your own child."
Stolas grit his beak, forcing down the torrent of emotions boiling in his chest. "This isn't about Blitzo. This is about Octavia, and she's missing. So instead of hurling your usual venom, maybe try being a mother for once and tell me what the hell you know."
"Don't you dare lecture me," she hissed. "You weren't exactly father of the year. Or have you forgotten the way she used to cry herself to sleep while you were off 'entertaining' your imp?"
He closed his eyes, the words hitting their mark—deep and painful. But he refused to let her drag this down into another toxic, circular war of guilt and blame.
"Where was the last place she went?" he asked, voice low, tense. "Who was she with? Did she take anything with her?"
But Stella only scoffed. "All I know is she left and didn't come back."
The line went dead.
Stolas stared at the screen, his hand shaking. His wings flared slightly, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Every word Stella had said was like a knife twisting in his gut—because he couldn't deny any of it.
She was right.
He had failed Octavia.
Stolas set the phone down slowly, as if it were made of glass. His trembling hand hovered above it for a moment before dropping to his lap, talons clenching into the fabric of the blanket still draped over his legs. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. Panic clawed its way through his feathers, twisting in his gut like a cruel, barbed vine.
"How… how did I let it get this far?"
His eyes were wide, unfocused, the room around him a blur of dull Imp City gloom. He forced himself to breathe, one trembling inhale after another, trying to calm the tempest rising within him. Octavia was gone. She'd been gone for days. Alone. Vulnerable.
Did she even have a place to sleep? Something to eat? The thought of her wandering the streets, cold and angry, made his stomach twist. He was used to the idea of losing everything—but not her. Never her.
He stood abruptly, wings flaring before drooping behind him. His claws dug into the edges of the couch as he stared at the photo of her on the table again. That small smile. That little flicker of light she always carried, even when the world had given her every reason to hate it.
And now he might have snuffed that light out completely.
"I should've seen this," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I should've listened."
All the arguments, all the broken promises. All the nights he told himself there would be time to fix it later.
Later had come and gone.
Stolas stood frozen at the window, the world outside blurring behind glass streaked by grime. Imp City was as dim and hollow as he felt—cold neon bleeding into lifeless shadows. The city didn't care that he was breaking. That his daughter, the one spark of light in his life, was gone.
And it was his fault.
As the weight of guilt pressed against his chest, his lips parted, his voice emerging soft and cracked. A melody, slow and mournful, clung to the air like fog.
Those hollow halls, they echoed with your pain
Your silence—it cuts deeper now
In every word I never thought to say
I see it—I let you down
His hand slid along the windowpane, claws leaving streaks. His reflection stared back at him—tired, older than he remembered. A father who had let his daughter slip through his fingers.
Though your sorrow and grief
They may fade for a day
He turned from the glass, shoulders slumped. Each step through the apartment echoed as if the walls themselves mourned with him.
I have failed you, of that I'm sure
I have left you in the dark, alone forevermore
And when my sins are just a memory, scars remain
I have failed you once again
He drifted through the space—past the empty bedroom he and Blitzo shared. The faint smell of lavender still lingered in the air. He clutched the edge of the doorframe, his talons digging into the wood.
Lost in the shadows of my selfish ways
Consumed by the fire I fed
I never saw the hurt behind your gaze
Regret is all I have left
His voice cracked with emotion, the words tightening in his throat as his knees finally buckled. He sank to the floor.
Though your sorrow and grief
They may fade for a day
I have failed you, of that I'm sure
I have left you in the dark, alone forevermore
And when my sins are just a memory, scars remain
I have failed you once again
The weight of his guilt was crushing now. His wings drooped low, his crown of pride long since shattered.
I know you turn away now
I feel the weight of all I've done
He raised his head slowly, staring down the hallway, imagining Octavia at the far end. Her eyes—full of disappointment. Pain. Fear. Anger.
Distance.
I have failed you, of that I'm sure
I have left you in the dark, alone forevermore
And when my sins are just a memory, scars remain
I have failed you once again
I have failed you, of that I'm sure
I have lost you to the pain, and I can't restore
All the love that I once promised—I let it die
I have failed you, my own child
Stolas sat in the silence that followed, tears finally escaping down his cheeks.
She was gone.
And he would scour every inch of every realm if he had to—until she was found.