Blinded by Illusive Eden

The zooming, roaring sound of the helicopter reverberates—its blades slicing the air into a whirlwind.

A dark blue chopper stands rampant, ready for flight in a vacant field veiled by slender woods. The debris of dry grasses blister through the air.

Ishmael steps out of the car. He opens the passenger side door and unbuckles her seatbelt. Gently, he lifts Neva's limp form into his arms and shuts the door behind him with a nudge of his shoulder.

He walks toward the sonorous helicopter, his cold eyes locked onto it. The chopper's lights cut through the shadows of the dim, rising moonlit sky.

The closer he draws to his salvation, the dullness in his gaze flickers—brightening, if only faintly. He glances down at Neva. Her delicate features soften something hidden deep in his chest. Tightening his grip on her, he looks forward.

She's finally his. Always has been. Always will be.

The pilot swings the locked door wide open. Ishmael climbs aboard—into the arms of freedom—

Behind, Rhett watches through watery eyes as the chopper buzzes and roars, vanishing like a beautiful dream.

Neva slips away... so far away.

His body shudders.

Fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel, the veins in his neck and arms bulge with pressure. A harrowing growl rips from his scorched throat.

His face contorts in agony—every muscle snarling in impotent rage. A single tear falls, vibrant with living color.

But the race isn't over.

The road behind brims with roaring engines and flashing headlights.

The hunt continues. Rhett must live. As long as Neva lives, he cannot die.

He won't leave her alone.

He can't abandon Rhean either—the child he's entrusted to a trusted pastor.

He floors the accelerator, thunder erupting from beneath the hood.

Doom chases him—relentless and starving, like death set to devour him down to his bones.

The clouded moon floats high above, casting pale light between the looming shadows of trees.

No streetlights. Only dark. Only pursuit.

The enemy closes in. Bullets thunder against his car, ripping the road apart. Rhett swerves, jerks the wheel violently, tires shrieking against asphalt.

He blazes forward, pushing past the assailants' SUVs, tearing through rugged, raw paths. But fate strikes again—his engine sputters.

The car stalls.

"Damn it!" he growls, slamming his fist against the wheel. He's out of gas.

Out of ammo, nearly out of bullets. He jumps out.

Rhett runs, fast and hard, the cold night unfeeling against his skin.

Ahead lies a lone, abandoned cabin—tiny, weathered, forgotten by time.

Clouds swirl above, but moonlight falls clear on mountains, lake, and forest.

The noise of oncoming cars grates behind him.

He tightens his jaw, charging toward the lodge.

Up the creaking stairs, he bounds two at a time. The wood groans under his weight, aged and uncared for.

The gang leaps from their vehicles, sprinting in pursuit. Guns drawn. Hearts ruthless.

From the broken window above, Rhett steadies his weapon, the higher ground giving him an edge. Moonlight catches the outlines of their forms—enough.

With the last of his bullets, he unleashes hellfire.

The savages drop—slaughtered. Scarlet blood pools beneath the weight of their sins.

The survivors throw themselves to the ground, scrambling for cover behind their armored SUVs. Their breath reeks of fear. Their eyes don't hide it.

"That fucking man is insane!" one hisses.

"Why doesn't he give up?! Fuck!" another snarls, clutching a bleeding arm where Rhett's bullet found him.

"Chief, what do we do?" a soldier pants, glancing at Zev crouched beside him.

Zev narrows his eyes, assessing the wreckage. "How many men left?"

The other scans the chaos. "Fifteen maybe, Boss. Including the injured. Most took a hit."

Zev sighs in frustration, his jaw tightening.

"Should we retreat?" the soldier pleads.

"No," Zev says coldly.

The man nods, hopeless. Preparing to face the flames.

"Burn it down," Zev commands, speaking into his earpiece. His glare sharpens on the lodge.

The gang grabs fuel cans from their trunks—meant for emergencies. Enough, they hope, to finish this.

They inch toward the cabin, expecting gunfire.

But silence.

A silence worse than gunshots.

The cabin watches—haunted and breathless. They circle it. Pour fuel over the decaying wood. Soaked. Ready to burn.

They sneer. Evil has blinded them. Adrenaline poisons their thoughts.

Agent Czar—Raka's sworn nemesis—has no escape. If he runs, he's shot. If he stays, he burns.

Perfect.

Zev strikes the lighter. The flame dances in his hand. Then he lets it fall.

The inferno ignites—fast as fury. Flames roar, swallowing the lodge whole in a storm of blue and orange.

Jubilant laughter erupts. The wicked celebrate.

Their grins wide, chests proud. Victory reeks in the air.

They hold up their phones, filming a tragedy they think is amusing.

And they snicker at the fire, believing the devil now burns within.

But the creatures of the woods—beasts, birds, trees—watch with silent grief. They feel compassion, but do not approach. For even nature fears mankind.

They mourn quietly.

They know: mankind has fallen worse than angels ever did.

For even fallen angels weep in regret.