13

The next soul emerged from the shadows, not hesitant or afraid — but calm. Too calm. A man in his forties, well-dressed, with a sharp, calculating gaze. His posture was relaxed, almost amused, as if the situation were nothing more than an interesting inconvenience.

"Name?" the Angel of Death asked, his voice steady.

"Victor Crane," the man replied smoothly, his tone dripping with arrogance.

The Angel glanced at his record. "Cause of death: assassination. Shot twice in the chest."

Victor smirked. "Well, they finally got me. Took them long enough."

The Angel studied him carefully. "You sound… unbothered."

Victor chuckled. "Why should I be bothered? I knew this was coming. You don't climb to the top without making enemies." His eyes glinted with something dark. "People like me — we're survivors. Until we're not."

The Angel tilted his head. "And what is it, exactly, that people like you are surviving?"

Victor leaned in slightly, his voice low. "The truth. That the world isn't kind. It isn't fair. People pretend to be good because it's easier to sleep at night. But deep down, everyone's selfish. Everyone wants something. I just stopped pretending."

The Angel didn't react. "So you embraced cruelty?"

Victor laughed softly. "Cruelty? No. I embraced reality. People like to call me evil because it makes them feel better. Like I'm some monster, and they're the heroes. But I'm not a monster — I'm just honest. I took what I wanted because no one ever gives anything freely. Power, money, control — it's all there for the taking. And the world respects those who take."

The Angel's voice remained quiet, but a flicker of sadness touched his words. "And what did all that power give you, Victor? What did it leave you with?"

Victor's smirk faltered for just a second. He blinked, the mask slipping. "It left me alive. Until now." His voice hardened again. "The weak suffer. The strong survive. That's the truth, whether you like it or not."

The Angel's gaze didn't waver. "You confuse strength with domination. Survival with victory. But true strength isn't in taking — it's in knowing when not to."

Victor scoffed. "Spare me the sermon. Good and evil are just words. In the end, people do what they must to get ahead."

The Angel stepped closer, his voice low and steady. "Evil isn't born from strength, Victor. It's born from fear. Fear of being powerless. Fear of being forgotten. You weren't strong — you were afraid. And you built an empire to convince yourself you weren't."

Victor's eyes flickered, his confidence cracking. He took a breath, his voice quieter now. "And what would you have done, then? Let people walk all over you? Let them decide your worth? I refused to be a victim."

The Angel's voice softened, almost gentle. "No one starts out wanting to be evil. They start out wanting to survive… and somewhere along the way, they stop caring who they hurt to do it. Evil isn't a force, Victor. It's a choice — made over and over, until you can't tell the difference anymore."

Victor's voice trembled, his mask finally shattering. "I didn't want to be a victim," he repeated, but it sounded hollow now. His voice cracked. "I didn't want to be nothing."

The Angel held his gaze. "You never were nothing, Victor. Not until you believed it."

Victor stared at him for a long moment, his breath shaky. His shoulders slumped, and the cold, calculating light in his eyes finally dimmed. He looked… tired. More human than he had ever allowed himself to be.

"What happens now?" he asked quietly.

The Angel extended his hand. "Now… you face the truth you spent your life running from."

Victor hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. "And if I don't like what I see?"

The Angel's voice was steady, compassionate. "Then maybe, for the first time… you'll finally understand why."

Victor stared at the hand for a long moment. Then, slowly — almost reluctantly — he reached out and took it.

As the light enveloped him, his mask of arrogance faded completely, leaving only the man beneath. Not a monster. Not a villain.

Just a man, who once believed that power could chase away his fear. And now, for the first time, he faced it — without running.

---

The next soul emerged not from light or shadow, but something in between — flickering and unstable, as if it couldn't decide what it truly was. A man in his late thirties, dressed in noble robes now stained with blood. His expression was a mixture of regret and defiance, his once-proud features twisted by something deeper than anger: betrayal.

"Name?" the Angel of Death asked, his voice steady.

"Edmund Vale," the man replied, his voice low and rough.

The Angel glanced at his record. "Cause of death: poisoned wine. By a trusted friend."

Edmund laughed bitterly. "Friend? Is that what we're calling it now?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I trusted him like a brother. I gave him everything. And he killed me for it."

The Angel studied him carefully. "What did he want from you?"

Edmund's jaw tightened. "Power. The same thing everyone wants. He smiled to my face, called me his closest ally — and then poured poison into my cup when I wasn't looking." His voice darkened. "I should have seen it coming."

The Angel's voice remained calm. "Did you betray him first?"

Edmund's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "No. I did what I had to do for the kingdom — for us. I made hard choices. Choices he didn't have the stomach to make." His voice trembled with bitterness. "I made sacrifices to keep us both safe, to keep our people safe. And he called me a tyrant for it."

The Angel tilted his head slightly. "Were they sacrifices, Edmund? Or did you take what you wanted and convince yourself it was for their sake?"

Edmund's eyes flickered with something uncertain. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

The Angel continued, his voice quiet but unwavering. "Corruption doesn't start as a grand betrayal. It starts with a single compromise — one you tell yourself is necessary. Then another. And another. Until one day, you don't recognize yourself anymore."

Edmund's expression twisted. "I did what was needed. I protected the kingdom. I protected him." His voice faltered. "I didn't ask to wear the crown. I didn't ask to make those choices. But someone had to."

The Angel stepped closer. "And when did it stop being about protecting them — and start being about protecting yourself?"

Edmund's face paled. He looked away. "I didn't mean for it to happen like that." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I thought… I thought if I held on long enough, I could fix it. I could make it right." His voice broke. "But he didn't believe me. He thought I'd become a monster."

The Angel's voice softened, tinged with quiet sadness. "Did he betray you, Edmund? Or did he stop believing in the man you once were?"

Edmund trembled. His fists clenched, his voice raw. "I wasn't a monster. I was trying to save everything. Everyone." His voice cracked further. "Why did it have to end like this? Why did he hate me so much?"

The Angel met his eyes. "Maybe he didn't hate you, Edmund. Maybe he hated what you became."

The words hit harder than any sword. Edmund's knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, shaking. The defiance, the bitterness — all of it drained away, leaving only the broken man beneath.

"I didn't want this," he whispered. His voice trembled like a dying flame. "I just… wanted it all to mean something."

The Angel knelt beside him, his voice quiet but steady. "It did, Edmund. But meaning doesn't erase the damage left behind. Betrayal cuts both ways — and corruption always asks for more than you meant to give."

Edmund stared at the ground for a long moment. When he finally looked up, his eyes were red with unshed tears. "Is there any redemption for me? After everything I did?"

The Angel extended his hand. "Redemption isn't something given, Edmund. It's something earned — and you'll have to face the truth before you can find it."

Edmund stared at the hand, his throat tightening. For a moment, he seemed like he might refuse. But then, slowly — with a trembling, broken sigh — he reached out and took it.

As the light began to envelop him, his voice came in a whisper.

"I'm sorry."

The Angel's voice was quiet and steady. "So was he."

---

The next soul appeared slowly, almost reluctantly, as though it was being dragged forward by an unseen force. A man emerged, his frame thin and hunched, his once-fine clothes now tattered and stained with ink. His eyes — sunken, wide, and darting — flickered with an unnatural gleam, caught somewhere between brilliance and madness. His hands twitched, as if they were still grasping for something that wasn't there.

"Name?" the Angel of Death asked, his voice calm and unwavering.

"Ambrose," the man rasped, his voice dry and cracked. "Ambrose Hawthorne."

The Angel glanced at the record. "Cause of death: starvation. Self-inflicted, from neglecting food and sleep for weeks."

Ambrose's head tilted, an eerie grin spreading across his face. "I didn't notice. I was so close. So close to finishing it." His voice trembled with an unsettling excitement.

The Angel's gaze lingered on him. "Finishing what?"

Ambrose's eyes burned with fervor. "The Masterpiece. The greatest creation the world would ever see. A symphony of words and visions. I just needed more time. A few more days — no, hours — and it would have been complete."

The Angel tilted his head slightly. "And what was this masterpiece supposed to achieve?"

Ambrose laughed, but the sound was hollow, cracking at the edges. "Perfection. Immortality. People would speak my name for centuries, millennia! They would marvel at my brilliance and never forget me." His voice rose, desperate. "I would matter. I would become something more than flesh and bone — more than human."

The Angel studied him, his voice low and steady. "Did you create for the world, Ambrose? Or did you create to fill the emptiness inside yourself?"

The grin faltered. Ambrose blinked rapidly, his expression flickering between pride and something more vulnerable. "I… I created because no one saw me. No one cared. I had to show them. To prove I wasn't worthless." His voice dropped, barely a whisper now. "They called me a failure. A fool."

The Angel's voice was gentle but unrelenting. "And did proving them wrong make you feel whole?"

Ambrose's hands trembled. His voice cracked. "It was never enough. No matter how much I wrote, painted, sculpted… it was never enough. Every time I finished, it felt wrong. Incomplete. Like a piece of me was missing." He squeezed his eyes shut, his voice shaking. "I thought if I just worked harder, gave more of myself to it, I could find it. That missing piece."

The Angel stepped closer. "And did you find it, Ambrose?"

Ambrose's eyes snapped open. His voice came out in a broken whisper.

"No."

For a long moment, there was only silence. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something hollow. Something lost. His voice trembled as he spoke again, quieter now.

"I gave everything I had. My mind. My body. My soul. And in the end… I wasn't a man anymore. I was just… the work." He swallowed hard, his voice barely a breath. "And even that wasn't enough."

The Angel's voice softened, tinged with quiet sorrow. "Obsession doesn't lead to creation, Ambrose. It leads to destruction — of the world around you, and of yourself. You weren't chasing a masterpiece… you were running from the fear that you were never enough to begin with."

Ambrose's face twisted, his voice trembling with fragile desperation. "But what if that's true? What if I was never enough? What if everything I did meant nothing?"

The Angel met his eyes. "You were always enough. You didn't need to create something perfect to prove that. But you were so consumed by your fear of being forgotten that you forgot how to live."

Ambrose stared at him, his eyes wet and glassy. His lips trembled, as though he wanted to argue — but the fight drained from him. His shoulders slumped, and his voice broke.

"I… I don't even remember why I started anymore."

The Angel stepped closer, his voice low and kind. "Maybe that's where you begin again — by remembering."

Ambrose stared for a moment longer before his head bowed, his voice a hollow whisper.

"I'm so tired."

The Angel extended his hand. "Then rest, Ambrose. Your story isn't over yet."

Ambrose hesitated, his gaze lingering on the hand. For a heartbeat, he looked afraid. But then his shoulders sagged, and he reached out — not with the desperate hunger he carried before, but with quiet surrender.

As the light enveloped him, his final words came as a broken whisper.

"I just wanted to be remembered."

The Angel's voice was barely a murmur in the fading light.

"You will be, Ambrose. For more than your work."