16

The next soul wasn't like the others.

The Angel of Death noticed it immediately — the absence of something. No sadness. No fear. No longing. Just… emptiness.

A young man stepped forward. His posture was straight, his eyes clear, but devoid of any light. He looked at the Angel, not with curiosity or confusion, but with a calm indifference.

"Name?" the Angel asked.

"Elian Carter," the man answered, voice flat and monotone.

"Cause of death: drowning."

Elian gave a slight nod, as if hearing the weather report. "I see."

The Angel studied him carefully. "Do you know where you are, Elian?"

"I'm dead," he said simply. "That's all that matters now, isn't it?"

The Angel tilted his head. "Most souls feel something when they get here. Relief. Fear. Sadness. You feel nothing?"

Elian blinked slowly. "I haven't felt anything for a long time."

The Angel's voice softened. "Why?"

Elian stared into the distance, his voice steady but hollow. "I stopped caring. About everything. People, dreams, life itself… none of it mattered anymore. I went through the motions because that's what was expected of me. Wake up. Work. Smile when necessary. Go to sleep. Repeat. I wasn't alive. I was just… existing."

The Angel watched him quietly. "Did anyone notice?"

Elian shook his head, his voice still emotionless. "Why would they? I wasn't sad. I wasn't angry. I wasn't anything. People only notice when you cry, scream, or break. But when you're empty? They think you're fine. Quiet is easy to ignore."

The Angel's voice dropped lower. "So you let yourself disappear."

Elian's gaze didn't waver. "I was already gone. The rest didn't matter."

For a moment, the Angel said nothing. Then, with quiet certainty, he spoke:

"Maybe not to them. But it mattered to you, once."

Elian blinked, his brow barely furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"You weren't born empty, Elian. You weren't always like this." The Angel's voice was steady but gentle. "Somewhere along the way, life chipped at you until there was nothing left to feel. But that doesn't mean nothing was ever there."

Elian was silent, his eyes distant.

The Angel continued. "Numbness isn't peace. It's a scar that never healed."

For the first time, Elian's voice faltered — just a little. "It's better than hurting."

The Angel nodded slowly. "Maybe it was. For a while." He stepped closer. "But pain isn't the only thing you shut out, is it?"

Elian's throat tightened, his voice barely a whisper. "...No."

"You buried everything — joy, love, hope — because it was easier to feel nothing than to risk hurting again." The Angel's voice softened. "But you deserved more than nothingness, Elian. You still do."

For a moment, the emptiness flickered. Not with sadness or regret, but with something deeper — a faint echo of the boy he used to be. The boy who once dreamed, laughed, and believed in something more.

Elian's voice came out quiet, strained. "I… don't think I remember how to feel anymore."

The Angel extended his hand. "You will. If you're willing to try."

Elian stared at the hand for a long moment. His breath was slow, uneven.

And for the first time in a long, long while… he felt something stir. Small. Fragile. But real.

A flicker of something that might one day become hope.

His hand trembled as he reached out, grasping the Angel's.

The emptiness didn't vanish. Not entirely. But it cracked — and through those cracks, something warmer began to seep in.

As the light began to pull him forward, Elian glanced at the Angel one last time, his voice barely a whisper.

"...Do you think it's too late for me?"

The Angel's voice was calm. Certain.

"It's never too late to feel again."

And with that, Elian stepped into the light — not whole, not yet. But no longer empty.

---

The next soul approached — and this time, the Angel of Death felt something strange. A flicker of contradiction, like two opposing forces trapped within one being.

A woman stepped forward. Her posture was steady, her expression unreadable. Yet her eyes were a battlefield — one half glimmering with warmth, the other shadowed with something darker.

"Name?" the Angel asked.

"Sele." Her voice was calm but layered, like two melodies playing at once.

"Cause of death: assassination."

Sele gave a faint, knowing smirk. "Figured it'd end that way."

The Angel studied her. "You don't seem surprised."

She tilted her head slightly. "I'm not. People like me don't live long."

The Angel paused. "And what kind of person are you, Selene?"

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Depends who you ask."

The Angel waited, silent.

She sighed, her voice quieter. "Some would say I was a hero. I saved villages from raiders. I took down slavers. I protected the weak when no one else would."

"And the others?" the Angel asked gently.

Sele's smirk faded. "They'd say I was a murderer. A thief. A liar who only did good when it suited me. And sometimes… they weren't wrong."

Her voice dropped lower. "I killed people. Some deserved it. Some didn't. I stole from nobles and tyrants, but I kept more than my share. I saved lives — and I ruined others."

She looked the Angel in the eye, her voice steady. "I wasn't good. I wasn't evil. I was both. I did what I had to."

The Angel regarded her quietly. "And do you regret it?"

Sele's expression faltered for the first time. Her voice softened, raw beneath the steel.

"I don't know." She looked away. "The good things I did… they wouldn't have happened without the bad ones. And the bad… maybe some of that saved people too. Does it even matter anymore?"

The Angel stepped closer. His voice was quiet, but unwavering.

"It matters, Sele. Not because the world needs to decide if you were good or bad — but because you do."

Sele's throat tightened. "And what if I can't? What if I'm both?"

The Angel held her gaze. "Then you're human."

For a moment, Sele didn't speak. Her mask cracked just enough for something vulnerable to peek through.

"...Do you think I deserve peace?" she asked, barely a whisper.

The Angel's voice was steady. "I think you deserve the chance to find it."

Sele blinked, her eyes glistening — not with tears, but with something quieter. Something like relief.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah… maybe that's enough."

The Angel extended his hand.

Sele hesitated only a moment before taking it. Her grip was strong, but no longer tense — like a warrior finally setting down her sword.

As the light pulled her forward, her voice echoed softly:

"I hope the good outweighed the bad."

The Angel watched her go, his voice a quiet reassurance.

"It did."

---

The air shifted.

The Angel of Death felt it before the next soul even appeared — a pressure, a heat, like a storm barely held together. The space itself seemed to hum with tension.

Then, he stepped forward.

A man, tall and broad, his muscles tense like coiled steel. His face was twisted in a permanent scowl, his eyes burning with something primal. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, and his entire body trembled as though barely holding back an explosion.

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

"Garrek Holt," the man growled, his voice low and raw.

"Cause of death: heart failure… induced by rage."

Garrek scoffed bitterly. "Figures."

The Angel studied him carefully. "You died angry."

Garrek laughed — but there was no humor in it, only bitterness. "I lived angry." He took a sharp breath. "And I died the same way."

The Angel tilted his head. "Why?"

Garrek's eyes narrowed. "Because the world made me this way. Every time I tried to build something — someone tore it down. Every time I trusted someone — they betrayed me. Life took everything from me, and when I fought back, it took even more." His voice trembled with fury. "So I stopped caring. I stopped hoping. I let the anger keep me standing, because nothing else worked."

The Angel's voice stayed calm. "And did it help?"

Garrek's fists tightened, but his voice faltered. "It kept me alive."

"For a while," the Angel said softly.

Garrek's jaw clenched. "It's not fair." His voice cracked. "I wasn't born like this. I wanted to be better. I wanted to build a life — a good one. But life didn't care what I wanted." His voice dropped lower, shaking with something deeper. "So I didn't care anymore either."

The Angel's gaze didn't waver. "You didn't stop caring, Garrek. You just cared so much it burned you alive."

Garrek stared at him, his breath heavy, his eyes flickering with something beyond rage — something raw, like an open wound.

"...What was I supposed to do?" His voice wasn't loud anymore. It was small. "Let it break me?"

The Angel stepped closer. His voice was steady, but kind.

"Anger isn't weakness, Garrek. It means you wanted something to be different. It means you fought for something. But anger alone isn't a life — it's a prison."

Garrek's breathing slowed, his shoulders shaking. "I didn't know how to stop."

"You weren't meant to carry it forever," the Angel said softly.

For a moment, Garrek didn't move. The fire in his eyes flickered — not gone, but dimmer, less wild. His fists slowly unclenched. His voice was barely a whisper.

"...I'm tired."

The Angel extended his hand.

"You can let go now."

Garrek stared at the hand, his expression torn between defiance and something more fragile. His breath hitched — then, with a shaky exhale, he reached out. His hand, calloused and rough, trembled as it met the Angel's.

The tension in the air seemed to break, the heat fading to something softer. The rage didn't vanish — but it no longer controlled him. It was just… there. A part of him, but no longer all of him.

As the light began to pull him forward, Garrek glanced back one last time. His voice was quieter than before, but steadier.

"Do you think… there's something more than this? More than the anger?"

The Angel met his gaze and nodded.

"There always was."

Garrek didn't speak again. He stepped into the light — not free of his fire, but no longer consumed by it.