A Reaper And A Fallen Angel

Chapter 4– A Reaper And A Fallen Angel

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Adam pulled the car into the hospital's nearly empty parking lot.

The sky was gray. Not stormy—just tired, like it had forgotten how to shine.

Zafrielle shifted in her seat, watching him turn the key and step out like it was just another stop.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, stepping out and tightening the dark coat around her.

Adam didn't respond right away. He adjusted the gloves on his hands and looked toward the towering building of glass and steel.

"My role."

Two words.

That's all he gave.

She followed him through the automatic doors, the smell of antiseptic and sterile sorrow washing over them. Doctors moved past. Nurses. Visitors. A sobbing mother in the lobby. No one noticed Adam.

But the spirits did.

The ones tethered to the walls.

The ones peering out from room corners.

The ones sitting on hospital beds next to their still-living bodies.

Zafrielle swallowed, suddenly feeling colder than before.

"They know you're here," she whispered.

Adam nodded.

"They always do."

They walked the halls. Floor after floor.

Room after room.

In one, an old man barely breathed. Tubes in his nose. A soft beeping monitor keeping time. A translucent shape hovered nearby—his spirit already half-detached, waiting for a verdict.

Adam entered quietly.

Zafrielle stood in the doorway, watching.

Adam approached the spirit, who turned slowly and looked him in the eye.

There was no pleading. Just tired understanding.

Adam raised his hand, and in that moment, Zafrielle saw it—his eyes glowed faintly. That strange ancient energy stirred, and with a simple gesture, the spirit disappeared in a pulse of soft light.

No pain. No spectacle.

Just peace.

Zafrielle's eyes softened. She hadn't seen him like this before. She didn't expect to.

In the next room, a woman in her eighties clutched a cross in her hands. Adam stood by her bedside for nearly a minute… then turned and left without a word.

Zafrielle followed him, trying to understand.

"You didn't do anything."

"She still has time."

Room after room. Faces blurred. Monitors beeped. Spirits lingered.

Zafrielle kept walking beside him, quiet… until they passed a children's ward.

There, Adam stopped. Just for a second.

He didn't go in.

Just… stood.

She looked up at him.

"You okay?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

"This part… never gets easier."

Zafrielle's voice fell to a hush.

"You don't show it."

"I can't."

He finally looked at her. Something in his expression wasn't just old—it was haunted.

"I've been around since the first death. Since the first sin. I've watched this world rot and heal and rot again.

Sadness doesn't hit me like it used to… not for kings, or killers, or men who brought the end on themselves."

He paused.

"But children…"

His voice caught.

"Children never deserve the endings they get. And sometimes, even I question the order of things."

She didn't know what to say. There was no comfort for a being that had lived through all of humanity's worst moments.

But she placed a hand on his arm.

A simple gesture.

And that was enough.

After a while, Adam stepped forward again, walking slowly past the rooms.

A nurse glanced at him as he passed.

"Are you family?"

He didn't respond.

But in that moment… the lights flickered.

And somewhere down the hall, a heart monitor gave one last long beep.

Adam turned back to Zafrielle and whispered low:

"Let's go. We've got another case tonight."

The children's ward was quiet.

No cries.

No laughter.

Just the steady hum of machines and the soft wheeze of small lungs struggling for breath.

Adam paused outside one particular room—Room 408.

Zafrielle followed his gaze. Through the window, they saw her.

A girl. No older than seven. Tiny. Pale. A web of tubes stretched across her fragile body like puppet strings holding onto life. Her spirit floated faintly beside the bed… flickering in and out, barely tethered.

Adam stepped inside.

Zafrielle didn't follow—not yet.

He stood beside her, silent, his scythe absent, his hand gently hovering over the girl's soul. Her time was up. The balance demanded it. The ledger had been written.

But Adam didn't move.

He just looked at her.

This little face. This innocent light.

So small in the cosmic scale…

Yet somehow—unbearably heavy.

He whispered.

"Today was supposed to be the day."

He closed his eyes.

"But a face like that… I just can't."

Zafrielle stepped in, watching him—expecting him to finish the task.

Instead, he reached forward, fingertips glowing with golden, ancient light.

The girl's spirit flickered—then slowly fused back into her body.

The machines remained steady.

Her chest rose.

A little deeper.

A little stronger.

Adam placed his hand gently over her heart, and with a pulse of light, warmth surged into her veins. Her eyes never opened—but her breathing slowed, softened… like sleep had finally taken hold without pain.

He stepped back.

Zafrielle blinked in shock.

"You… spared her."

Adam looked down at the child, then back at her.

"I bent the law. I didn't break it. There's a difference."

"You healed her."

"I helped the body catch up with the soul. Sometimes the soul wants to stay… it just needs a reason."

Zafrielle looked at the sleeping child, then at the man who had walked through wars and fire and history with death at his back.

And in that moment, she saw him—not just as the Reaper.

Not as the myth.

Not as the feared balance-keeper.

But as something human.

Something merciful.

She said nothing.

She didn't need to.

Outside, the hallway continued on as if nothing happened. Doctors walked. Time passed.

But in Room 408, a child who was meant to die… began to heal.

And in the stillness, Adam looked toward the window. Not at the view—but beyond it.

"I'll pay for that one, eventually," he muttered.

"Would you do it again?" Zafrielle asked softly.

Adam didn't hesitate.

"Every time."

And with that, they walked out of the room—quiet, unseen, and leaving behind a miracle no one would ever understand.