(POV – Emily Parker)
Emily studied the [Angel of Death] more closely, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to figure out why she seed so... worried? Emily wasn’t even sure that was the right word. The request was... strange. She seed overly interested in a simple priest, and that wasn’t casual curiosity. It felt deliberate.
Besides, wasn’t this sa anomaly perched on the ceiling just monts ago, silently watching her? And now, standing there in front of her, the [Angel of Death] was acting as if none of that had happened.
From Emily’s perspective, the situation was deeply unsettling, though, if she were being honest with herself, “unsettling” was practically her normal. Her job regularly put her face-to-face with things that defied logic and sanity.
The [Angel of Death] herself was a walking enigma, not just in existence, but in thought and behavior. Her actions followed their own twisted logic, hard to track and even harder to predict. That alone didn’t necessarily an she was dangerous. Emily wasn’t the type to ignore how much help the anomaly had given her up to this point.
But as she kept her gaze fixed on the figure in front of her, she noticed sothing that made her hesitate. The voice. The anomaly’s voice inside her head sounded different. Not drastically. Just... slightly. Was it... angry?
Outwardly, nothing had changed. Her face remained the sa, impassive, bored. And yet sothing was off. Emily’s instincts were screaming it.
A thin chill ran down the back of her neck, the fine hairs on her arms prickling as if an invisible current had passed through the air between them.
The anomaly wasn’t in her usual state. Emily shot a subtle glance toward Laura. It was quick, almost imperceptible. Laura caught it imdiately.
Their eyes t for a second longer than necessary, and Laura gave the faintest nod. Small. Discreet. But clear enough to confirm: she felt it too.
Emily turned her attention back to the [Angel of Death]. She still stood there, unmoving. Her eyes were locked onto Emily, intense, unshakable, as though they were piercing not just her body but sothing deeper.
Her expression hovered on the edge of indifference, as always, a blend of disinterest and cold detachnt that seed permanently etched onto her features.
Maybe it was the way her fingers flexed, almost imperceptibly, as if restraining an impulse. Maybe it was the slightly increased stiffness in her shoulders. Or the way the silence around her felt heavier than usual.
She seed... restless. And Emily had no idea how she knew that. Letting out a quiet sigh of resignation, Emily pushed her chair back a few inches, the wheels giving a soft squeak against the polished office floor: “Alright. Co here”
She kept her expression neutral as the small figure crossed the room toward her. The cold glow of the monitor reflected in her glasses, casting bluish tones across her face. Turning back to the screen, she rested one hand on the desk and waited patiently for the anomaly.
Then, suddenly, she felt sothing settle onto her leg. A light but unmistakable weight pressed into the fabric of her slacks. The unexpected warmth contrasted sharply with the office’s chill, making her freeze for a split second before her fingers tightened involuntarily around the armrest.
Emily blinked several tis, trying to clear the haze that seed to have drifted over her vision. When her sight finally adjusted, she turned her head, and froze.
Sitting on her lap was a young girl with whitish hair, almost translucent silver, drifting like silk threads suspended underwater. Her form was faintly translucent; the edges of her body shimred as if made of moonlit vapor.
Emily’s brain simply short-circuited. A complete blank overtook her thoughts for a full second before a single question timidly forced its way through the ntal chaos: Why the hell was she sitting on her lap?
The weight was strange, not entirely physical, yet undeniably there. A soft cold seeped through the fabric of her clothes, like the lingering touch of a winter breeze that refused to leave.
Swallowing hard, she shot a sideways glance at Laura. Her friend’s expression perfectly mirrored her own, eyes wide, lips parted, utterly frozen. If this was a hallucination, at least it wasn’t a private one.
Emily tried to retrace her steps. Slowly. Carefully. What had led to this deeply uncomfortable situation? She thought once. Twice. Three tis. Then it hit her.
When she’d called the [Angel of Death] over, she had lightly patted her own thigh, an automatic gesture, accompanied by a distracted smile. So subtle she hadn’t even noticed it at the ti. An informal, familiar invitation.
The anomaly was small, just a little shorter than a teenager, but slightly bigger than a child. Narrow shoulders. Relaxed posture. It made Emily subconsciously treat her the way she’d treat a bored nephew at a family gathering. A pat on the thigh. An implied “co here”
But that wasn’t a nephew. It was the [Angel of Death]. Emily exhaled slowly, and her thoughts spiraled sowhere even more absurd. The anomaly was light. Incredibly light. When she moved, it barely seed like the floor reacted to her weight.
Was she even eating properly? As far as Emily knew, the anomaly practically survived on ice cream, cartons upon cartons stacked in the freezer, and spent the rest of her ti glued to video gas. Not exactly a healthy lifestyle, if you asked anyone.
Although... did that even apply? Did anomalies have a concept of “healthy” A tabolism? Nutritional deficiencies? Did they need eight hours of sleep? Or was all of it just a superficial imitation of human habits, adopted out of convenience, or boredom?
Emily frowned at the thought. She drifted into her reflections for a few monts, so imrsed that the world around her faded into a distant murmur. Then she felt it, before she consciously registered it, the weight of a stare.
She looked up. The anomaly was watching her. Not just looking. Staring. The anomaly’s expression was hard to read. Indifference, maybe. Or... disbelief? As if she couldn’t quite process what she was seeing. Beside her, Laura seed restless.
A faint furrow in her brow hinted at sothing bordering on jealousy, though it was impossible to tell exactly what she might be jealous of. Emily’s hands moved in the air absentmindedly, over and over, her fingers curling and uncurling as if she were petting a cat in her lap.
That was when Emily realized, after a small, embarrassing delay, that she was doing the exact sa thing. Her fingers were raised, unconsciously mimicking the motion of stroking a cat.
She pulled her hand back quickly, almost as if she’d been burned. She felt the weight of the anomaly’s gaze on her, a stare that didn’t press, but didn’t blink either. Laura had noticed too.
The silence that followed was brief, but heavy. Emily cleared her throat. Turning quickly toward the monitor, she adjusted her glasses with her index finger and adopted a casual, natural tone.
“Well...” she began, forcing lightness into the situation: “I’m not sure what you’re trying to see. At the end of the day, it’s just so random nutjob out there who thinks anomalies are gods or sothing like that...” The sentence died midair. Emily stopped.
Her eyes slid back just enough to glance at the [Angel of Death] out of the corner of her eye: technically... she and her sisters were, in fact: “deities”
Emily froze for a second. Then she let out a quiet sigh, shrugged, and completely brushed aside her earlier thoughts: “Except for you and your sisters, of course”
She fell silent afterward, allowing the anomaly to do... whatever it was she was trying to do. She kept her gaze fixed forward, avoiding any unnecessary reaction. Emily didn’t know exactly what the anomaly wanted, but it was clear she showed an unusual interest in the news about the cult, especially anything involving the priest.
Amid the observations, the [Angel of Death] tilted her head slightly and calmly asked whether Emily knew where the priest lived and what his daily routine was like. Naturally, Emily frowned, confused by such a specific line of questioning. Still, she answered honestly: she didn’t know where the priest lived... at least, not yet.
If she wanted to, all she had to do was make a discreet request to the organization’s agents. Within hours, she’d have his exact location, travel records, financial history, and any other relevant information about the weird priest. That kind of intel was trivial for them. The real question wasn’t whether she could get it. It was why the anomaly wanted it.
Emily turned back to the monitor, forcefully pushing aside the thoughts that kept piling up in the back of her mind. The cold glow of the screen illuminated her face, highlighting the faint crease between her brows as she clicked the mouse and restarted the video once again.
In the recording, the priest stood before the altar, his hands raised theatrically, long fingers nearly touching the golden light streaming through the stained-glass windows. He was preaching, or whatever the proper na for that performance might be. His voice echoed steadily through the speakers, deep, asured, heavy with conviction.
It wasn’t the first ti Emily had watched this video. In the minutes before, she had opened several others, skipped through sections, gone back to specific scenes, replayed certain lines. She studied the details: the way his eyes seed to shine when he ntioned “the revelations” and “the signs.”
As always, the priest spoke with confidence. His words were convincing, as if he weren’t rely conveying faith, but absolute truth. For one uncomfortable instant, Emily felt herself almost believing him. Not in the promises. Not in the blessings. But in the certainty he projected.
There was sothing else. The way he spoke was strange. He didn’t sound like soone who worshiped the anomalies, he sounded like soone who knew them. Like an interdiary. A spokesperson. An envoy.
Especially when the video showed, in the background, the statues displayed inside the church. Imposing silhouettes carved from dark stone, wings spread wide, serene expressions frozen in place.
The cara never lingered on them for long, but the priest always made sure to ntion them with reverence. Naturally, Emily knew exactly what they were. They weren’t abstract symbols. They weren’t spiritual taphors. And they certainly weren’t saints. They were representations of the [Angel of Death] and her sisters.
It was while watching the video with a strange mix of indifference and curiosity that Emily heard a low, prolonged creak, a dry sound of wood being forced past its limit. Her brow lifted slowly, and she looked away from the screen toward the noise.
The [Angel of Death] was still sitting on her leg, both hands resting on the desk. Her long, pale fingers were spread open, pressing firmly against the surface. At first glance, it looked casual, like soone leaning forward slightly. But it wasn’t.
The wood beneath her hands began to give way. Fine cracks appeared like dark veins, spreading slowly across the polished surface. The creaking grew sharper. Small fragnts chipped away near her fingers, and a crooked line ran from one end of the desk to the other.
She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and simply didn’t care. Her shoulders remained still, her expression unchanged, while the pressure continued to build. The next crack was louder, sudden, like a warning about to beco destruction. If it went on for a few more seconds, the desk wouldn’t just crack. It would split clean in half.
Laura seed to realize what was about to happen too. Her eyes widened slightly, and her fingers stiffened instinctively: “Uh... I don’t think the desk’s strong enough for that...” she muttered.
Emily shot Laura a worried glance. The gesture was imdiate and reflexive, and she found the exact sa expression on her friend’s face. They didn’t need words. Sothing was wrong.
It was subtle at first. A faint discomfort, as if the air had grown heavier. Then the heat ca. Mild at first, but rising. Small beads of sweat ford on Emily’s forehead, slowly trailing down her temple. Laura reached up to her neck, feeling damp skin.
Both of them looked around in confusion, scanning the room for the source of the sudden change in temperature. It didn’t take long to realize.
The naturally whitish, almost translucent hair of the [Angel of Death] began to change. At first, a soft blush ran through the strands, like embers reigniting beneath pale ashes.
The red deepened gradually, pulsing with an inner glow. Then isolated locks turned a vivid, luminous blue, radiating a cold light that clashed violently with the growing heat.
Emily swallowed hard. Laura instinctively took a step back. Without needing to say it out loud, they both understood the sa thing: The situation was spiraling out of control.
User Comments
0 comments from readers