Azrael stood over Han, his arms crossed, glaring down at the kneeling hitman with an exasperated look on his face. "What is wrong with you, you dumbass!" he barked, his voice sharp with disbelief. Han, still on his knees, stared at the ground, the gun he'd just fired lying in front of him. Sweat poured from his body so profusely that even his hannya mask seemed to be sweating.
Michael, meanwhile, rubbed the back of his head, his face twisted in both anger and incredulity. "You shot me in the back of the head!" he exclaimed, towering over Han as well. Of course, being God, the bullet had bounced off harmlessly, but the act itself was outrageous. "What were you thinking?"
Han's mind was racing, his body frozen as he silently cursed himself. *I thought that's what I was supposed to do!*
Michael's frustration only grew as he pointed at the gun Han had used. "Not only did you shoot me, but you used a 5mm! Not even a 50 caliber! How easy did you think I was to kill?!" His voice was a mix of fury and insult, almost as if the offense lay more in the underestimation than the actual attack.
"I... I put some divine power into it," Han muttered under his breath, barely audible. "But I see your point."
Azrael, still fuming, threw his hands in the air. "And even if that had worked, what then? You just killed God—what's your brilliant plan after that?" His words dripped with sarcasm as he paced in front of Han. "Did you think anything through at all?"
Han's shoulders slumped even further, his hands loosely hanging at his sides as the weight of his own impulsiveness settled over him. "No," he mumbled, "I didn't think it through. I never do. It's why I'm dead in the first place."
Azrael's eyes narrowed as he sighed heavily, shaking his head in disappointment. "Why did you even do that in the first place?" he demanded, his voice softer but no less frustrated.
Han's voice was barely above a whisper now. "I thought he was going to kill you." His words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was silence.
Azrael rolled his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Han, I'm the Archangel of Death. He literally can't kill me." He waved his hands around as if explaining the most basic concept. "That's like giving you two apples and suddenly you have seven, despite having none before! It's literally impossible!" He glanced at Michael, whose face was buried in his palm in shared exasperation.
Michael shook his head slowly, taking a deep breath before speaking. "I should fire you for this," he muttered, his voice weary.
Han perked up slightly, his eyes lighting with a glimmer of hope. "Does that mean I'm not a Heavenly Operative anymore?" There was a faint eagerness in his voice, as though this might be his chance for an escape from this strange afterlife.
Michael scoffed, glaring at him. "Don't sound so hopeful," he growled, before gesturing to Azrael. "Because of him, I'm going to need every ounce of help I can get to keep Heaven running—even if that means keeping colossal idiots like you around."
Han's brief moment of hope deflated instantly, his head dropping again as his eyes fell back to the floor. His gaze wandered over the piles of junk scattered around Azrael's chaotic office, and with a heavy sigh, a thought crossed his mind. *I belong here...*
Michael turned his back on Han, ignoring the still-embarrassed hitman. His gaze locked on Azrael, his expression steely with frustration. "You can't keep doing this," he warned, his voice sharp but with a weariness that only millenniums of carrying Heaven's burdens could bring. "You can't keep breaking the rules and doing whatever you want, or whatever you think is right. And don't you ever compare me to Lucifer again," he added, his gaze piercing as Azrael simply looked away, offering nothing more than a dismissive shrug.
Michael clicked his tongue in irritation, knowing full well that no amount of scolding would make a difference. Azrael wasn't the type to listen to reason—he never had been. And what was worse, Michael understood that Azrael's immortality rendered any punishment futile. As the Archangel of Death, Azrael was immune to the consequences that bound others, untouchable even by Michael's authority. Whatever Michael did, nothing would be lasting or effective.
With a resigned sigh, Michael turned around, walking toward the exit. "I'm leaving now," he muttered, his voice tinged with warning. "Don't make me come here again, little brother." He strode past Han, who, still stung from the earlier scolding, awkwardly picked up his gun and retreated to the corner of the room, this time facing the wall like a scolded child.
But just as Michael reached for the door handle, Azrael's voice cut through the air. "You stopped being kind, Michael."
The words hung in the room like a knife twisting in Michael's gut. He froze mid-step, his grip tightening on the door handle as he slowly turned back to face his brother, his face a mask of anger barely contained. "What did you just say?" His voice was low, dangerous, as if daring Azrael to repeat himself.
"You stopped being kind," Azrael repeated, his expression somber, disappointment clouding his once-bored eyes.
Michael's rage boiled over, erupting like a dam breaking under the weight of centuries of suppressed emotions. "I stopped being kind?" He stormed back toward Azrael, his voice rising with each word. "Of course I stopped being kind!"
His eyes burned with a fury that could shake the heavens. "I stopped being kind when Father told us to kill the very people I was created to protect! I stopped being kind when I watched one of our brothers being killed by those same people I was created to protect! I stopped being kind when our brother's killers ascended to our home and tore Heaven apart! I stopped being kind when more than half of our brothers and sisters betrayed us—betrayed me—to defend the people I was created to protect! I stopped being kind when I had to fight my own brother because he wanted to do what I was created for instead of me being able to do it! I stopped being kind when our eldest brother, the one I looked up to most, beat me within an inch of my life, while I was still doing everything I could to serve the role Father gave me! I stopped being kind when I watched Father—our Father—get torn apart, limb by limb, piece by piece, by that same brother, all for the sake of protecting those same people I was created to protect! I stopped being kind when I was forced to take on a role I was never meant for! I stopped being kind when we were thrown into this eternal war with our fallen brothers and sisters, fighting endlessly, for eternity—a war I never wanted but was forced to lead! I stopped being kind after I was forced to go against everything I was created for, Azrael! I know I stopped being kind! I know I'm not what anyone wants to become! I know that! I know! But don't ever tell me I stopped being kind as if you don't know why, Azrael. You were there. You saw it all. And yet, you never supported me. Not once."
Azrael stood silent, watching his brother unravel before him. For all his defiance, there was no mockery in his eyes now—just a quiet understanding.
Michael's face twisted with one final wave of bitter rage. "So don't you dare lecture me about kindness, Azrael, Archangel of Death." With that, he slammed the door so hard the walls shook. But just before it closed, he caught a glimpse of something in Azrael's gaze—something that looked suspiciously like pity.
And Michael hated him even more for it.