Falling Star

It was the fateful day of my re-entry to Earth and it was chaotic at best, since the moment my ship breached Earth's atmosphere, the fire began.

The hull, battered and scarred from months of radiation and cosmic debris, screamed against the unrelenting force of reentry. Flames erupted along the outer plating, licking hungrily at the weakened metal. Warning lights exploded across my console, each one screaming of imminent failure.

The G-forces slammed into me, pressing me into my seat like a crushing weight. My body, still weakened from months of low gravity, fought against itself. My vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in from the sides as my muscles strained.

"Hold together. Just a little longer."

The right booster—the weakest link in this desperate gamble—stuttered, then roared, then sputtered again. My ship jerked violently, yanked off-course by the unstable thrust.

Trajectory warning.

I was drifting—too fast, too shallow. If I didn't adjust now, I wouldn't be landing. I'd be crashing.

My fingers flew over the controls, rerouting what little power remained to correct the descent. But I didn't have enough.

And then—

A transmission cut through the chaos.

"Mr. Angel, this is Mission Control. We're taking over your descent guidance. Execute command override and switch to assisted entry—now!"

For the first time in months, I wasn't alone.

I swallowed down the instinct to do everything myself and slammed the override switch. The moment I did, Earth's ground teams took control.

Engines fired in calculated bursts, stabilizing the descent angle. The ship groaned under the coordinated maneuvering, but it worked. My trajectory locked in—not perfect, but controlled.

Outside the cockpit, the clouds parted, revealing the massive landing site below. Floodlights. Emergency crews. Military presence. A crowd.

The world was waiting for me.

"Touchdown in ten seconds," a voice crackled through my headset.

I exhaled sharply. Here we go.

Five seconds.

The boosters roared, firing in calculated bursts to slow the descent.

Three seconds.

The reinforced landing thrusters—provided courtesy of Earth's engineers, who were now forced to help me—ignited at the last moment.

One second.

The ship hit the ground hard—but not uncontrolled.

The landing struts held, absorbing the force with an ear-splitting groan. The ship skidded slightly, a spray of dust and debris bursting outward, but the emergency teams had already accounted for that.

When the dust settled—I was down.

And I was alive.

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Camille had seen grand moments before—moments that reshaped industries, that sent shockwaves through pop culture and global markets.

But this?

This was history.

She stood before a massive display screen, her livestream broadcasting to millions. The camera drones, perfectly positioned, had captured every second of Mr. Angel's return.

The moment his ship became fire in the sky, the internet detonated.

Every major news network scrambled to cover the event. Commentators screamed over each other. Political analysts speculated. Theories spread like wildfire.

But the most important thing?

The government couldn't look away.

They had been forced to aid him. Forced to coordinate his landing. Forced to make sure he survived—because too many eyes were watching.

If they had let him die on reentry, if they had failed to intervene?

The backlash would have been unstoppable.

Camille's fingers were clenched tight, but her face—her image—remained poised.

"Ladies and gentlemen… he has landed."

Her livestream exploded.

"THEY ACTUALLY HELPED HIM?!"

"THEY CAN'T COVER THIS UP NOW!"

"LOOK AT THEM JUST STANDING THERE. THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO."

"IS HE ALIVE? PLEASE, TELL ME HE'S ALIVE."

Her heart pounded as she watched. Mr. Angel—Reynard—was inside that wreckage.

And the entire world was waiting for him to emerge.

-----------

Everything hurt.

The ship was still, but my body hadn't caught up. I could barely think through the ringing in my ears, my vision swimming as I reached for the harness release.

I had to move.

The world was waiting.

With shaking fingers, I unclasped my restraints and pushed myself up. My legs were weak, unsteady. My body had spent too long in reduced gravity. Every step felt like I was carrying a mountain on my shoulders.

But I had to stand.

I reached for the exit hatch, pulling the emergency release. The door hissed, then groaned, before finally giving way.

Light flooded in.

And beyond it—the world.

A massive crowd had gathered, stretching out as far as I could see. People pressed against barricades, some cheering, some stunned into silence. Military forces stood rigid, unsure whether to act or let this moment happen. Medics were waiting, poised to rush in.

And the cameras.

Thousands of them. Hovering drones, news crews, cell phones—all aimed at me.

I gripped the edge of the doorway, forcing my body forward. My limbs were sluggish, my muscles trembling, but I walked.

One step.

Another.

The crowd erupted.

But the noise—the lights, the voices, the overwhelming pressure—it was all too much.

The gravity. The atmosphere. The sheer exhaustion of surviving against impossible odds.

My knees buckled.

I staggered.

My vision blurred.

And then—

I collapsed.

Eventually, I woke up to a familiar scene.

A sterile white ceiling.

A faint beeping sound.

The lingering scent of antiseptic.

I knew this place.

This exact hospital. This exact room.

I'd been here before.

I exhaled slowly, my senses coming back to me in pieces. The weight of my own body felt unfamiliar. Strange. Heavy.

Earth's gravity.

I shifted slightly, feeling the slight pull of an IV in my arm. My hand twitched. Something was off. Something was missing.

My mask.

I turned my head.

There—on the table beside me—was the mask.

But, not the dust-covered, shadowed one I had worn as Mr. Dust.

This one was white and gold. Ornate. Regal. My mask for Mr. Angel.

A soft chuckle drew my attention to the doorway.

I looked up—and froze.

A familiar face.

Cropped platinum-blonde hair. Piercing blue eyes that analyzed me like a puzzle to be solved. A knowing smirk on lips that had seen too many people like me before.

Alexis Harrington.

The nurse who had once patched me up when I was Mr. Dust.

She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe, watching me with an amused glint in her eyes.

And then, in a voice laced with undeniable amusement—

"You really chose to wear another mask, huh?"

I simply stared at her.