The weight of the so-called Wade crashed onto the two-seater couch in the parlor as the lady offloaded him with a grunt. He uttered a word of his own creation before sinking into a deep sleep, his snoring filling the air like a discordant melody.
"Idiot," the lady cursed through gritted teeth, her frustration palpable.
"Couch or attic?" she asked, her gaze fixed on me, brow furrowed—a gesture I couldn't quite decipher. It felt like a riddle, one I was expected to solve immediately.
"What?" I quizzed, doing little to hide my confusion at her vague words.
"Where do you wanna sleep?" she repeated, impatience lacing her tone.
"Master bedroom." Of course, I wouldn't mind a night of luxury, erasing every remnant of the monsters I'd encountered with a single nap. A soft bed, maybe some fairy lights, anything but this madness.
"Wrong answer," she replied, her tone laced with mock annoyance. It worked; I felt the irritation clawing at my insides, but I kept my mouth shut.
After patching her bleeding arm up, she gave me an appliance to rub on the hand that had accidentally met with the monster's venom. She then turned on her heel and headed off—presumably to the kitchen—without another word, leaving me to ponder the two options she'd given.
The sounds of sizzling and the vibrant aroma of onions soon wafted in from the kitchen, drawing my attention. My stomach rumbled, reminding me just how hungry I was after the chaos of the day.
"Where am I?" I asked quietly, certain she heard me. The good thing about angels was that you didn't have to shout over the kitchen counter to get a simple answer.
She fell silent, as if my question had dropped into an abyss. The sizzling continued, accompanied by the clatter of pots and pans.
I was about to clear my throat to remind her that my question lingered when she finally answered. "You are in Anubistopia, darling."
I must have heard that wrong. I definitely had. "What?!"
"You heard me right," she clarified, her voice steady, as if she were announcing the weather.
Her words echoed in my mind, disbelief melting into a cold realization. Anubistopia—the very name a twisted tribute to death, with a fancy suffix tucked on to soften the harsh reality: a prison.
Home to the brutal and deadly. A land where the term peace did not exist in the vocabulary. Flames and blood painted this town. A good day was when demons and angels forgot to break their previous record of killing each other.
The prison was infamous for its cold-blooded murders and the relentless rivalry between angels and demons. One would think that the fact that the Imperium could make it work between angels and demons in the castle, the world's were safe but on the ground things were different. And places like this could attest to that—-places where those unfit for society were tossed. No rules, no leadership, no peace, no world—it was like a post-apocalyptic island deliberately built by the Imperium to send psychotic angels and demons to die.
I wondered how I couldn't tell from the elite zombies' attack. Call me a coward, but this place was honored to buy my fear.
The aching questions that gnawed at me were: why? What had I done wrong? What made them bring me here? Them, him, her—whoever was responsible for luring my ass across the seven seas—including the Pacific, and boy is that level hard in Call Of Duty: Warfare.
One thing was for sure: the Imperium—the protectors of all angels and demons—was behind all this.
Hyperventilation crept in as a side effect of the exaggerated scenes playing back and forth in my mind. If there was a sea monster that could spew a liquid with a paining burning sensation out of its mouth, then there were definitely more ways to kill an angel. And I didn't want to die—not before seeing another whole series on Netflix. Not before living my happily ever after, finding my prince charming, and raising kids who would be as evil as me.
"Don't worry, darling. You will soon learn how to survive here," the lady uttered, placing a ceramic plate on the wooden kitchen counter with a soft clatter.
Survive? That was not the plan.
She moved back to the kitchen, returned with a pan and a serving spoon, and began dishing out food onto the two plates. I squinted at the dishes, unable to visualize them clearly, but I knew it didn't matter—not when I was in an isolated prison for angels and demons without the slightest idea of why.
I was sure the Imperium was responsible for this, but I had to confirm it. "Was I brought here by the Imperium guards?"
As soon as the words left my lips, I felt a wave of foolishness wash over me—after all, she hadn't been there when I woke up in that reclusive grave house.
"We all were. Your memory will come back in fragments, now eat up. We have some work for tomorrow."
Work?
I wished I could argue, but I was too drained.
A lingering question twisted in my mind—what could I have done to deserve this? The flashes of light, the spectrum—nothing in the fragments of memory added up. What had I done to deserve this fate?
"I won't cook for you and bring the food," she warned, her voice carrying an edge. "Brace yourself."
"What did you do to be brought here?" I couldn't help but ask, curiosity bubbling up as I wondered how her crimes compared to whatever malevolence I had committed.
Silence hung in the air, her way of building tension. I waited, the seconds stretching out.
"I stole," she said, chopsticks in hand as she munched on whatever she had made for us. "I stole the crown."
The story of the castle prowler was familiar among the angel community, but I never imagined I would live to meet the thief of the forbidden crown.
"The forbidden crown?" My amusement was indiscernible, a spark of intrigue igniting in the back of my mind.
"I was young and dumb," she replied, shrugging. "Now eat up."
Even if I did something stupid, it was definitely not half as impressive as maneuvering through the Imperium castle guards to steal a cursed crown. No wonder she was so good at kicking ass. How malevolent. I would be proud if I'd done that.
"Okay, Mom," I said, a teasing grin breaking through the tension.
°*°
I chose the attic. There was no way I was going to sleep next to that bastard Wade. He snored like he was competing with New York's decibels. The stench of what I could only assume was angelic alcohol filled the parlor, and I would die if I had to endure it for more than an hour.
The day's exhaustion clung to me like a second skin, every muscle aching for relief. I craved the simplicity of a shower, longing to let the water wash away not just the grime but the weight of everything that had happened. The thought of refreshing my mind and body was the only comfort in this bizarre situation.
The small wooden door to the shower room creaked as I pushed it ajar, the hinges protesting in the silence. Nicole had said that was where the "commoners' bathroom" was located. For sure I hadn't lost my way, but that didn't make her any less of the worst person when it came to giving directions.
The door revealed a stark, utilitarian shower stall. Its walls were bare, the floor dry—as if it hadn't been used in a while—but there was a distant smell of honey soap lingering in the air, and the only light came from a dim bulb dangling on the ceiling, casting an eerie glow. The showerhead jutted out from the wall like a pier in the middle of a forgotten sea.
Slowly, I undressed, hanging my clothes on the door, the only place that could hold them. The cold air nipped at my skin, and I shivered, feeling more vulnerable than I had in ages.
I stood there, staring at the handle that controlled the water, my heart racing with uncertainty. I'm really here, aren't I? The thought repeated in my head like a broken record, its truth undeniable yet still incomprehensible.
I reached out and turned the handle, flinching as the water spluttered to life and poured down in a cold, sharp torrent. The shock of it jolted me, grounding me in the harsh reality of my situation.
The dryness beneath my bare feet fled as the water streamed over me, washing away the physical filth. My mind raced. How did I get here? The question revolved infinitely, but no answer came. Instead, there was an empty echo of bemusement and the growing realization that I was not in control, that I had no say in what had happened to me.
This was not Chicago; this wasn't America—this wasn't even on the map of Earth. Adding salt to injury, I had competitors and rivals equally strong. Here I was, no longer a "god"; Nicole had made it clear I was just another commoner.
The Imperium—once a symbol of protection—now loomed in my mind like a shadowy oppressor. As the truth of my situation set in, a wave of panic surged through me, each beat of my heart pounding with the fear of the unknown.
Why would they bring me here? The thought was sharp laned with a mix of disbelief and betrayal. The water pounded against my skin, but it did nothing to wash away the sting of the realization.
The water was cold, almost punishingly so, and as it ran down my back, I felt the shiver return—not just from the temperature but the sheer isolation of all. I'm going to lose it here. No Gucci, no Balenciaga, no McDonald's or anything. The fear crept in despite my efforts to keep it at bay. This place—prison—wasn't just a physical cage. It was a mental cage built to make people lose their minds.
The shower, this simple act of cleansing, became something more—a moment of regrouping, to reclaim some small part of myself that hadn't been taken by this place.
I took a deep breath, letting the water cascade over me, washing away the grime and, with it, the lingering sense of helplessness.
I clenched my jaw, fighting the rising tide of dread. I'm the Angel of Death, and that is all I need to get the hell out of here.
When I finally turned off the water, I felt a strange mixture of exhaustion and resolve. My skin was clean, but the sense of vulnerability—of being utterly exposed to the forces that were playing—lingered like a shadow.
The shower had done little to ease my mind, but it had given me a moment to breathe. I dried off and wrapped a towel Nicole had offered me around myself, I felt a flicker of resolve—fragile, but there. I wasn't broken yet. Not by a long shot.
I stepped into the gray hallway, the cold air a harsh reminder of where I was. I promised myself that I would find a way to survive, to fight, and to discover the truth no matter how long it took.