Chapter 85: Freedom in mediocrity

The angel didn't have much of a say in anything as the Archangel dragged him to the massive window of the office while the rest of the angels watched, still in shock and confusion. "Um, where are you taking me?" the angel asked, his voice tinged with confusion and a hint of apprehension. *Why would an Archangel take any interest in me?* The Archangel didn't answer and then, without warning, shattered the massive window with a powerful kick.

"Wha-what are you doing!?" exclaimed one of the supervisors, their voice filled with shock and disbelief. As for the rest of the angels, let's just say that if their eyes could get any wider, then their eyeballs would fall out of their heads. "Oh, stop your yelling," the Archangel said nonchalantly, waving the supervisor off. "It's not like you can't fix this up in a jiffy," he added dismissively before turning to the angel with a raised brow. "What are you doing?" he asked, his tone more curious than demanding, before grabbing the angel by the back of the neck.

"Why are you—" The angel's protest was cut off abruptly as the Archangel threw him out of the broken window. "Fly, you little punk," he commanded, his voice carrying a mixture of amusement and challenge, though the angel couldn't hear it amidst the rush of wind. As the angel plummeted, he instinctively sprouted his pure white wings, which caught the air with a soft whoosh. Gasping for breath, the angel felt his heart race, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He wiped away a droplet, inspecting it with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. *What is this? Sweat?*

Of course, he knew what sweat was, but this was the first time he actually sweated. Heaven was, after all, perfect. He wiped away another bead of sweat from his brow, feeling its unfamiliar warmth. He then looked up at the broken window and saw the Archangel looking down at him with a smirk.

"Heh, looks like someone hasn't popped his cherry yet," the Archangel said with a chuckle, his tone laced with amusement. With a fluid motion, he sprouted his wings, and the angels watched in awe as not two but four wings emerged from the Archangel's back. But what truly stunned them was the color of his wings — a dark, foreboding black that seemed to absorb all light. Combined with his crimson eyes and stark white hair, he resembled more of a demon than an angel.

After sprouting his wings, the Archangel simply walked off the broken window, his movements graceful and confident. He descended to the angel's level before effortlessly taking flight. The force generated by his flapping wings, as if disrupting the perfection that polluted Heaven, sent a gust of wind that nearly threw the angel off balance, causing his own wings to momentarily buckle under the pressure.

"What? Are ya struggling a bit?" the Archangel asked with a grin, his voice dripping with amusement. The angel opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, the Archangel cut him off.

"I don't care. Try to keep up with me, will ya?" With that, he turned and began to fly off, leaving the angel momentarily stunned. He quickly shook off his surprise and started to fly behind the Archangel, though not without stealing a glance back at the broken window from the corner of his eye.

There, he saw Kevin giving him an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. *Too supportive,* he thought to himself with a hint of irritation before refocusing his attention on the Archangel, who was steadily getting further away. "Slow down a bit!" the angel exclaimed, struggling to match the Archangel's pace.

Glancing back at him with a sneer, the Archangel replied, "Don't wanna. If you want out of this shit, then you gotta keep up with me, even if your wings fall off, punk!" With that challenge issued, he accelerated, leaving the angel to grit his teeth in frustration.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but..." Determination flared within him, and he flapped his wings harder and faster, ignoring the growing soreness in his back and wings. *I want to keep up!*

Struggle breeds life.

The angel panted deeply, his breath coming out in misty clouds with each exhale. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and soaked through his clothes, forcing him to shed his suit, which now hung limply from his arm. His back ached, his wings drooped with exhaustion, and his head spun from the overwhelming sensations assaulting him all at once.

"Haha, you actually managed to keep up. What a good little punk you are!" The Archangel's laughter echoed around them as he ruffled the angel's sweaty hair. Between gasps for air, the angel managed to speak. "W-why are w-we he-here?"

They stood before an old, one-story office building nestled within the human paradise. Its weathered façade seemed out of place amidst the perfection surrounding them. "Because this is where I live, punk. Now, come on, let's head in." Without waiting for a response, the Archangel seized the angel's arm and dragged him towards the building's entrance, causing him to drop his suit.

He made a feeble attempt to retrieve it, but the Archangel pulled him along, and the doors of the office closed behind them. *I can pick it up later,* the angel thought to himself, resigned to whatever awaited him within the building.

Hard work leads to satisfaction.

The angel surveyed the room with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. *What's up with this place?* he thought to himself, taking in the disarray. Books lay scattered everywhere, haphazardly placed and half-open. They cluttered not just the floor but also the desk and both couches in the room. Even the glass coffee table between the couches was not spared, hosting its own array of random items like cans, noodle cups, and loose paperwork. It was a chaotic mess.

"Ah, home sweet home," the Archangel remarked, seemingly unfazed by the disorder. He walked over to the desk positioned near the window, causing the wooden floor to creak under his weight. After reaching the desk, he pulled out a rolling chair and settled into it comfortably. From under the desk, he retrieved a bottle containing some sort of substance.

With a gesture, the Archangel indicated for the angel to take a seat on one of the couches. The angel, scratching his head in mild bewilderment, complied, clearing away some of the clutter before settling down. Meanwhile, the Archangel produced two small glasses from under his desk and poured the liquid from the bottle into them. With a casual flick, he tossed one of the glasses to the angel, who caught it with a surprised expression, managing to avoid spilling a single drop.

"Drink it, punk," the Archangel commanded, tossing back his drink in one swift motion. "Why do you keep calling me that?" the angel muttered under his breath, eyeing the glass apprehensively. After a moment's hesitation, he took a cautious sip, only to recoil as the harsh liquid burned its way down his throat, prompting a fit of coughing.

"What was that?" He managed to choke out between coughs, his eyes watering from the sting. The Archangel smirked. "Whisky. Doesn't it taste just great?" he asked, amused by the angel's discomfort. The angel struggled to focus on him through blurred vision, his eyes stinging from the harsh beverage.

"Great? It tasted horrid," the angel grumbled, rubbing his throat to soothe the discomfort. The Archangel laughed at his reaction before posing a seemingly absurd question. "But did ya like it?" 

The angel gave him a bewildered look, momentarily taken aback by the question. How could he like it? It tasted awful. It was nowhere near as good as the perfect drink, so how could he ever like— "Yes, I did," the angel replied unconsciously, looking down at his glass of whisky.

He quickly covered his mouth, startled by his own response. *Why did I say that?* he wondered, his confusion growing as the Archangel chuckled knowingly. "Yep, I was right to choose you," he remarked, leaving the angel perplexed by his cryptic statement.

The angel put down the whisky on the coffee table and let out a sigh, rubbing his temples as the pounding in his head intensified. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked, his voice strained with discomfort.

The Archangel let out a lazy yawn, rubbing his eye before responding, "Simple, to ask you a question." The angel turned to him, furrowing his brows in confusion.

"A question you couldn't have asked me in the obelisk?" He questioned, his tone tinged with frustration. The Archangel nodded before getting up from his chair and walking over to the angel. The angel watched as the Archangel placed his hands on both his shoulders, locking eyes with him. The Archangel's red eyes met his teal ones with an intensity that seemed to pierce through to his very soul.

"Do you want to help people?" It was a simple question with a simple yes-or-no answer—for a human or demi-human, but for an angel? It was far more complex. The angel understood what the Archangel was talking about. He knew what answering yes meant, and he also knew the routine he would return to if he said no. He knew what he would have to leave behind if he answered yes. He knew the struggle, the pain, and the suffering. But he also knew the monotony, the stagnation, and the meaninglessness. He simply knew, and he also knew his answer.

"Yes."