A few pages.
A new possibility.

Velthryx felt the chamber grow still around him. “The Almighty forbade us from appearing before humanity. Their freedom must remain intact. We may not command them, threaten them, or reveal ourselves in a manner that makes obedience unavoidable.” Velthryx began to understand why he had been summoned. He disliked the understanding immediately. “You are not bound by that prohibition,” the Tribunal said. Velthryx looked from one ancient figure to another. “I am to go to Earth?” “You are!” The words struck him with greater force than any weapon forged below.

He had spent his entire existence among stone, flame, and the condemned. Earth was a place of living things, changing skies, and creatures whose bodies could perish from causes as minor as age, disease, or falling unexpectedly down stairs. “What am I to do there?” “You will take human form.” Velthryx lowered his gaze toward himself. His body was built for the underworld, broad and armored, crowned by horns curved like blackened scythes. His wings could span a torture chamber, and his mouth contained three rows of teeth, none intended for polite conversation.

The Tribunal continued. “Those whose souls have not yet been lost, but who have wandered near the path of damnation, will be directed toward you. You will receive them. You will observe them. You will help them understand the consequence of what they have become.” “And if they refuse?” “You will show them where their path ends.” Velthryx knew that place well. The flames beneath the stars reflected in his eyes. “You will not compel them to change,” said the Tribunal. “You will offer understanding. You will offer truth. The choice must remain theirs.” Velthryx considered the task. He knew nothing of guidance. He had never encouraged a soul to improve, largely because every soul he met had arrived too late for improvement to matter.

“I am a torturer,” Velthryx said, his eyes still fixed on the floor. “You have been.” “I know nothing of mortals.” “You will learn.” “I know nothing of mercy.” The changing figure before him settled briefly into the form of an old woman. “Then you will learn that as well.” Velthryx felt something unfamiliar stir within him. It was not fear, exactly. Demons understood fear as an instrument, not an experience. This was smaller, quieter, and somehow more unsettling. It was doubt. “Why was I chosen?” The question escaped before wisdom could prevent it. The members of the Tribunal regarded him. The stars beneath his feet stopped moving. For one extraordinary moment, Velthryx believed he would receive an answer. He imagined some hidden virtue discovered within him, some rare quality that distinguished him from the countless demons serving below. The Tribunal offered no explanation.

“Prepare yourself,” they said. Light surrounded him. His wings spread in alarm, but there was no air for them to catch. The chamber vanished, the stars collapsed beneath his feet, and Velthryx fell through the boundaries of creation. He descended toward Earth with no training, no plan, and no clear understanding of what could possibly sway a human. The Tribunal, in its infinite wisdom, had neglected to mention that part. Velthryx fell through the heavens.

Michael woke up already knowing it was going to be a bad day.

Not because of the pounding in his skull. That part was expected. Earned, even. The empty bottles scattered across the floor around him were a pretty reliable indicator of how the night had gone. No, the headache was just background noise.

It was the glow. Faint at first. A flicker behind his eyelids, like distant lightning trying to claw its way into his skull. He didn’t even bother opening his eyes. He just lay there on the floor, one arm draped over his face, and muttered hoarsely. “Give me five minutes.” The glow didn’t care. It surged.

His eyes snapped open as the world shattered. A bright yellow Corvette. Too clean. Too loud. The kind of car that screamed for attention even when it was standing still. An older man sat behind the wheel, gray hair slicked back, a cigar clenched between his teeth like it owed him money. His phone was pressed to his ear, voice sharp, irritated, dismissive. He wasn’t looking at the road. Probably at his phone instead. The car drifted. Just a little at first. A lazy sway across the lane divider like it didn’t belong to him. The man didn’t notice. He was too busy yelling about something that didn’t matter. Something that never mattered.

The screech of tires came too late. Metal screamed. The Corvette slammed into a light pole hard enough to snap it clean at the base. The impact sent a violent shudder through the ground as the pole tilted, hesitated.. and fell. Power lines tore loose with it. Sparks erupted in a shower of white-hot chaos, crackling like the sky itself had split open. One live wire whipped through the air, dancing with lethal intent and struck a passing school bus. Fire. Instant. Hungry. Relentless. It swallowed the bus in seconds.

The windows fogged with heat. Small hands slammed against the glass from the inside, frantic, desperate. The muffled screams of children filled the air, high-pitched and panicked and too many. There were too many. The doors wouldn’t open. The flames climbed higher. The screams didn’t stop. They lingered. Longer than they should have. Long enough to make sure he heard every single one.

Michael gasped and the world snapped back into place. He was on the floor again. Same cheap apartment. Same cracked ceiling. Same smell of stale alcohol and regret. His chest heaved like he’d just run a mile. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and immediate.

“Yeah,” he whispered, staring up at nothing. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.” His hands trembled as he pushed himself upright. The room tilted slightly, reminding him that he was still very much hungover and very much not equipped for… any of this. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and let out a slow, bitter breath. Kids. It always hit harder when it was kids.

“Why is it never,” he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion, “like… a yacht full of tax evaders? Or a bus full of people who clap when the plane lands?” No answer. There was never an answer. Just the clock. Ticking. Somewhere out there, that bus was still intact. Still full of laughing, loud, completely unaware children. The driver was probably humming along to the radio. The man in the Corvette was probably still yelling at someone who didn’t deserve it. None of it had happened. Not yet anyway. But it would. It always did.

Michael forced himself to his feet, ignoring the way his body protested the decision. His head pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat, each step feeling like it came with consequences. “Alright,” he said to no one. “Let’s go save a bus.”

There I was, laughing like an absolute idiot while my wife stared at me like she was reconsidering her life choices.

We had just walked out of a small store. Nothing fancy. The kind of place with narrow aisles, fluorescent lights, and a rack of impulse-buy junk right by the door. You know the type. Right next to the register was one of those spinning displays of sunglasses. A tall, wobbly tower of bad decisions with a little mirror bolted to the top so you can try on plastic shades and pretend you are somebody.

My wife was paying. I was bored.

So I spun it.

Just a casual spin at first. The kind of spin you give something when you are pretending you are not twelve years old. I looked at a pair. Put them back. Gave it another spin. It made that satisfying whirring sound as it rotated. Honestly, it felt like the highlight of my day at that moment.

My wife finished paying. She grabbed her change. We started walking out.

And because apparently I have the impulse control of a raccoon in a gas station, I gave it one last spin.

Not a gentle spin.

Not a responsible adult spin.

I gave it a full send.

That tower of sunglasses spun like it was auditioning for the Olympics. The cheap cardboard holders that were never meant to handle real centrifugal force betrayed their purpose. Sunglasses started flying. Not one. Not two. A handful. Maybe more. They shot off that rack and skidded across the tile like confused little frisbees.

There was that half-second of silence where time slows down and you realize you have done something incredibly stupid.

My wife looked at me.

I looked at the sunglasses.

The cashier looked at all of us.

And instead of immediately being a decent human being, instead of bending down and picking them up, instead of saying, “Hey, I am so sorry about that,” I did what any mature grown man would do.

I panicked.

We bolted.

We hustled out of that store like we had just committed a felony. We got into the car. I started laughing so hard I could barely breathe. My wife was mortified. She kept saying, “You are ridiculous. You are an adult.” Which only made me laugh harder.

In that moment, it felt funny as hell.

We did not break anything. Nobody got hurt. It was just some cheap sunglasses on a floor. What is the big deal?

That is how the brain works when you are the one who made the mess.

It was not until later, when I replayed it in my head, that the laughter faded and something else crept in.

Embarrassment.

Then recognition.

Then that quiet, uncomfortable thought.

Man… I was kind of an asshole.

Not a villain. Not evil. Not malicious.

Just careless.

Because here is what I did not think about in that moment.

Someone had to pick those up.

Someone had to stop what they were doing, walk over, bend down, gather up the scattered sunglasses, check to make sure none were scratched, slide them back into those flimsy cardboard sleeves, and reassemble that stupid spinning tower so the next bored idiot could come along and do the same thing.

And that someone was probably making close to minimum wage.

That someone probably did not find it hilarious.

That someone probably rolled their eyes and thought, “Of course.”

Here is the part that makes it worse.

I have spent about twenty five years of my life in the service industry.

Twenty five years.

Convenience stores. Retail shops. Big box retailers. Fast food counters. Restaurants. And eventually hospitality. I worked my way up. I learned the systems. I learned the policies. I learned the corporate language. Today I sit on the managing team of one of the highest rated hotels in my city.

I have trained employees. I have enforced policies. I have handled guest complaints. I have been yelled at about things I had zero control over. I have cleaned up messes that were not mine. I have watched staff members fight back tears in break rooms after being treated like they were less than human.

I have seen the best customers this world has to offer.

And I have seen the worst.

And even with all of that experience. Even knowing exactly what it feels like to be the person cleaning up the mess.

I still spun the damn rack.

I still laughed.

I still ran.