[A/N From OW1: Hi, I've been trying new writing styles so I apologize if my writing styles don't have a consistency and are different each time. I've been reading and trying to improve my writing style to be more.. Better.. I'm also taking duolingo english lessons to learn new words, adjectives, and other. I'm also reading English dictionaries to further advance my English vocabulary so I don't have to rely on OW2 or Google for words.]
The air was brittle. Tense, even.
Gabriel moved first, his instincts sharp as he was pulling out a katana–stolen during his stay in Japan–and unsheathing it as he walked urgently yet cautiously.
"Rae-rae" He called out, not turning around, not raising his voice. "Grab the kids, hide."
"Archielle, on me." Gabriel finally turned and looked, his gaze sharp and calculating.
Archielle didn't have to be told twice. Gun in hand, hair already tied with no baby strands in the way. She and Azrael locked eyes for a brief, tense moment. He blinked–slow, trusting. Then he gave her a nod.
The nod that meant 'I trust you to end this. I trust you to survive.'
The nod that meant 'don't let them see you lose control in front of the kids, but I won't stop you if you do.'
After acknowledging the nod, she disappeared into the dark like she belonged, leaving Azrael and the kids to hide.
As Archielle and Gabriel stood next to one another, there were footsteps nearing them. Not from enemies, but from allies.
Khial, Onix, Waynn, and Navy—the four shadows appointed to protect Archielle—slid into formation.
No need for orders; they moved with that bone-deep rhythm only years of experience and practice could ever have taught them. Compact wedge. Minimal silhouette. Watched and secured angles. Breaths slow and non-noticeable.
Lucian stepped beside Gabriel. No words. Just the subtle unsheathing of another katana—his gleamed with fresh oil, its edge so fine it sang when it caught the light.
"Gabriel," he said under his breath. "Ready in three."
Gabriel didn't answer. He only looked at Lucian, that classic stare he always gave only to him—quiet, blistering, unspoken.
The countdown begun:
Three.
Safeties clicked off. Gabriel adjusted his grip. Archielle checked her corners. The others lowered their center of gravity—ready for breach.
Two.
They located the shapes. Shadows moving. Formation tight—stacked, disciplined. These weren't random thugs. They were trained. Maybe ex-military. Maybe worse.
But it didn't matter. They were on the wrong side of Azrael's safety.
One.
The moment cracked.
Gabriel was wind and fury—unseen until it was far too late. Enemies vanished like breath in cold air, their bodies crumpling before their minds could register fear. Where he passed, silence followed, save for the soft thud of heads hitting the earth, necks torn clean in a single, merciless stroke. Not even time had time to scream.
Lucian, precision incarnate. A kiss of steel to the corticospinal tract—right at the mid-cervical level—left all those he faced adrift in a prison of flesh and silence. Their lungs still rose with a stubborn rhythm, their heart thudded on like a metronome too cruel to stop... but their fingers, those trembling storytellers of thought, lay limp and still. They could feel the world echo around them , every breath drawn but never chased, every scream blooming inside with nowhere to go.
Alive.
And utterly unmovable.
Like a marionette with strings cut, watching the stage burn.
Archielle was the storm on the horizon—quiet at first, almost beautiful in her stillness. But by the time you noticed, by the time your breath caught and your instincts screamed, it was already too late. You could run. You could beg. You could pray. But she was already upon you, all thunder and inevitability, and mercy was never in the forecast.
They moved like a breath held too long.
Khial, Onix, Waynn, and Navy split on first sight—two steering left, two right, clearing the enemy area with practiced efficiency. No wasted motion. No comms. Just the surgical rhythm of practiced men who had been trained not to be seen, only felt.
Onix was cleaning out the right corridor low, double-tapping kneecaps and collarbones with the speed of someone who had lost too many friends to hesitation. Waynn, behind him, suppressed with measured shots—chest, chest, head—clearing corners before the bodies even dropped.
Navy ran rear cover, rotating back every few steps, his finger never straying from the trigger guard until needed. Khial? Khial stayed by Archielle. Someone had to. Even harsh storms needed an anchor.
Then came the infiltrators. Full gear. Standard-issue armor, probably modified. Night-vision goggles that hummed faintly if you were close enough to hear. They came in coordinated, sweeping angles—one team low, one team high, overlapping lines of fire.
A perfect, clean slice on paper.
But reality didn't care for paper.
Gabriel met them mid-cross, disrupting their axis before it could even settle. His blade caught the first rifle mid-sweep, shearing it clean at the barrel. One, two—no flourish, no hesitation. Just metal meeting bone. Arterial blood misted the air like red confetti, glinting in the dark as another man fell without sound. Tactical silence.
Always silence.
He didn't need to roar to be terrifying.
Lucian quickly–and with ease–advanced behind him, a second shadow to Gabriel's wrath. He used his katana differently—reverse grip, low to the hip. Close-quarters surgical strikes. Elbow control, slash the artery, pivot, next.
One of the infiltrators caught sight of him too late and raised a knife. Lucian caught the blade with a quiet block and drove his katana up beneath the ribs. The man didn't even gasp. He just folded—elegant, inevitable.
And Archielle–Oh.
Archielle didn't advance.
She hunted, She was like a ravenous lioness.
The first time she had fired her gun, it was deliberate. The flash of light illuminating the hallway like a camera flash before a funeral.
The second shot came fast. The third faster.
She wasn't just clearing rooms—she was claiming territory. Every shell casing was a flag. Every body a warning. The infiltrators began to falter, their formation faltering under the sheer unpredictability of her advance.
She moved with the raw chaos of someone protecting what mattered, but every motion was efficient, calculated.
A crouch under fire. A ricochet shot off the wall to distract. A timed reload while vaulting over a corpse.
There was no elegance in it—only devastation.
"CLEAR LEFT!" Navy called softly. Despite the harsh situation, he still maintained dignity and silence.
"RELOADING—COVER!" Waynn barked, pivoting behind cover.
Khial caught Archielle's arm as a spray of enemy fire clipped the corner of a hallway—shrapnel grazing her arm. She didn't even flinch. Just tore the gauze off one of the fallen, wrapped it around her bicep, and kept moving.
Another shadow came lunging out of the smoke.
She didn't shoot.
She slammed the butt of her pistol into the man's throat, twisted, and jammed it under his chin.
"Tell your boss," she whispered, her voice low and void of mercy, "next time, bring someone worth bleeding for."
She pulled the trigger.
The body hit the ground like punctuation.
By the time the dust began to settle, the corridor was silent again. Not peace—never that—but the hush that comes after the storm has passed and you're still alive.
Gabriel stood at the end of it, his blade now dull with blood. Lucian beside him, sheathing his sword in one clean motion, spine still perfectly straight.
Archielle walked through the wreckage, the gauze at her arm soaked, but her breathing calm.
Behind them, Khial gave a quiet signal—two fingers up, one hand on his earpiece.
"All clear," he said.
But no one relaxed.
Not yet.
Because it wasn't about survival.
It was about who had dared come for them, for Azrael.
And whether they'd be foolish enough to try again.
The hallway stank of blood and gunpowder. Gabriel hadn't even fully wiped his blade before the next wave came—louder this time. He heard it in the floor. Heavy boots. More organized. Less precision, more brute force.
Mafia.
Italian by the dialect they barked into their radios. He caught clipped vowels, the rough weight of a Naples accent. Not mercs. These were personal.
"Break-in, west hall," he muttered into comms. "Bigger boys. Not smart ones."
He didn't wait for backup.
The first guard was bulkier, gun drawn, trained stance. Gabriel moved like a snake in water. A flick of the wrist and the man was down, crumpled with a noise like a dropped coat. The second rushed forward and met Gabriel's elbow—right under the jaw, before the katana even needed to speak.
A third reached for a grenade—no. Gabriel kicked the man's wrist sideways, hard enough to break. The scream was muffled as his blade followed through, slipping under the collarbone like a whisper. No blood spray this time. Just silence, again.
Always silence.
It was over in under forty seconds.
But Gabriel didn't feel safe.
He turned slowly.
Azrael was crouched with the kids, his arms wrapped around all four as if he could physically shield them from whatever horrors echoed in the dark. Azura's little fingers gripped his shirt so tightly the seams strained. Azarius had tears in his eyes—but he wasn't crying. not loudly, at least. Just… shocked. Archie looked pale, his breathing fast and uneven. Hyperventilating. Astraeus was cuddled up against Archie's chest, her sobbing muffled against his shirt.
Azrael's lips moved like he was trying to say something. To reassure them. But the words weren't coming or going.
And Archielle—
She had her back to the wall, her gun slack in her hand.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes.
Her breathing wasn't steady anymore. Her hands twitched like they wanted to grab something, stop something. Her pupils were blown wide, and for a second—just a second—she wasn't there.
Not really.
"Archielle."
Nothing.
He stepped forward, voice still low, still steady.
"Arch."
She blinked. Flinched. Then she looked at him. But it wasn't him she saw.
"Hey." He raised both palms. "You're here. It's not them. It's me. It's Gabriel."
Her breath hitched like a cracked mirror catching light. Her jaw clenched. Her hand found her side—phantom-pain. Scars that memory tried to reopen.
She turned away.
"I'm fine," she muttered, but her voice cracked halfway through.
Gabriel didn't push. Just nodded.
"Rae-rae," he called over, more gently now. "I've got this. Get the kids somewhere safe."
Lucian answered before Azrael could move.
"I already secured east. No breaches there. Panic room's clear." He emerged from the dark end of the corridor, a fresh clip in hand, his shirt half-unbuttoned like he hadn't had time to fix himself. His jaw was locked tight. That kind of tight that said he'd kill ten more people if anyone breathed wrong at Azrael again.
Gabriel walked past him, then paused.
"Get them to safety," he told Lucian, softer than anyone would've expected.
Lucian nodded. "Of course."
And then—just a beat too long—they didn't move.
They stood still. Close. Energy crackling faintly like leftover static from the violence. Lucian's hand brushed Gabriel's as he took the blade from him, casually, like it was nothing. Like it hadn't just killed five men. Their fingers touched. Held. Briefly.
Lucian tilted his head. "You alright?"
Gabriel huffed a dry laugh. "My arms hurt."
Lucian raised a brow. "Need help with that?"
The pause was heavy. There was no blush, no coyness. Just the quiet knowledge that after this much blood and noise, the only thing left that could soften Gabriel's jaw again was Lucian's voice at his throat.
Gabriel glanced at the room behind them. Azrael. The kids. Archielle trying to steady herself.
"Later," he said, voice low.
Lucian stepped closer, leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Gabriel's ear.
"I'll be ready."
And then he was gone, walking toward the others like none of it happened.
Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, exhaled once, and turned toward the shadows.
Because it wasn't over.
Not yet.
The bathroom was too white.
Sterile. Wrong.
Archielle leaned over the sink, both palms planted on cold porcelain as the faucet ran. It didn't sound like water.
It sounded like static.
Her hands were red.
Still.
Still red.
Even though she'd scrubbed them quadruple times already.
The blood wasn't fresh—it had dried in the cracks of her knuckles, caught under her nails, flaked like rust across her skin. Some of it wasn't even theirs. Some of it she couldn't remember putting there.
She stared at her reflection.
That wasn't her.
Or maybe it was.
The lines of her face looked older than she remembered. But that didn't make sense.
She didn't remember much.
She turned on the water again. It hit her hands with a hiss. Too hot. She didn't care. She scrubbed.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again..
The skin started to go pink. Then red. She watched the lather swirl down the drain like some delicate marbled paint. Red, white, pink, gone. And still, her fingers trembled.
That's when it happened.
The sink warped.
Not literally—but like memory had pulled it backward, drawn curtains over her eyes without warning.
The white tile blinked and suddenly wasn't tile anymore.
It was green.
Mint green.
Like a hospital. Like a room she had no name for.
She was standing over a different sink.
Not hers.
A tray of bloodied gauze beside her. A scalpel. A towel. No gloves.
Her hands were smaller.
Slimmer.
Nails painted chipped silver. Her voice sounded younger—except she wasn't speaking.
A cry echoed behind her.
Sharp. Shallow. An Infant.
She turned.
There was a crib.
A real one.
Not a metaphor.
Not a dream.
Not a nightmare.
A real, wooden crib.
She stepped forward—
And it was gone, fading into mist.
The tile snapped back into place. The faucet was still running.
Her hands shook violently now.
What the hell was that?
She staggered back, gripping the edge of the sink like it might hold her up in the face of it all. Her chest rose then fell too fast. She tried to slow her breath, but it kept catching halfway.
She didn't remember that.
She wasn't supposed to have anything to remember.
She was rebuilt. Reclaimed. All her life with Azrael was a second chance, a clean slate, a fresh start.
And yet—
Yet somewhere out there… a memory had lived long enough to bleed.
There was no sound but the drip.
drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Her fists slammed against the mirror.
The crack was tiny, but it stared back at her like an eye.
She whispered without meaning to.
"I held a baby once."
The sentence didn't feel like hers. Not fully.
It felt like a ghost's.
One that had worn her skin before she ever met Azrael.
The door behind her creaked.
She whirled—gun half-raised—
But it was empty.
No one had come in.
Or maybe… no one had left.
She gritted her teeth, turned the water off, and wiped her hands clean.
Then again.
Then again.
Because this blood didn't come off so easy.
And neither did ghosts.
(Started: 24/04/2025 - Finished: 26/04/2025 - Published: 28/04/2025)
(Written By OW1- reviewed by OW3 - Proofread by OW2 and OW1's cousin)