The infirmary hummed with quiet pain.

Dan stepped inside, the scent of antiseptic and dried blood thick in the air, clinging to his throat like guilt. His conversation with Liz still rang in his ears – her voice steady, her decision final.

We go tonight.

He should've been resting. He should've been prepping, conserving energy for what came next.

Instead, he pulled on his gloves and let the halo bloom.

A soft glow ignited above his crown – golden, warm, and tired. The light eased some of the tension in the room. Nurses moved a little faster. The wounded stirred. A few even exhaled.

He didn't speak. Just moved.

From cot to cot, hand to wound. His aura flowed like honey through cracked vessels and split skin. A gash across the thigh sealed in seconds. A fractured clavicle knitted itself whole. Someone with burn blisters from a malfunctioning charm sighed as the agony ebbed.

Dan's touch was always gentle. His presence quiet.

But every soul he healed took something from him. A flicker of light. A sliver of strength. He could feel it – like someone scooping marrow out of his bones with every spark he gave away.

Still, he didn't stop.

A young scout winced as Dan took his arm, bone twisted at the elbow, skin bruised dark. Kid couldn't have been more than sixteen.

"They say Liz can fly now," the boy mumbled, eyes wide, hopeful. "Can you?"

Dan paused. Just for a second.

Then forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "No," he said softly. "I'm a more down-to-earth angel."

The boy chuckled. Dan healed him anyway.

Another patient grabbed his hand as he moved on – a woman with burn scars across half her face. "We'll win this one, right?" she asked, voice cracking.

Dan hesitated. His fingers curled around hers, firm but gentle.

"We'll bring him home," he said. "Then we win."

He didn't wait to see if she believed it. He wasn't sure he did either.

He moved to the next bed. Then the next.

By the time he finished, his halo was flickering. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled the curtain shut behind the last cot.

Everyone sees halos and flames now. No one sees the ones holding the dying together.

He stepped out into the hallway, the light dim and cold. The concrete wall was damp against his back as he leaned into it, head tilted to the ceiling, eyes closed.

If I leave, they'll suffer. If I stay… Max dies alone.

The golden light above him dimmed to a faint outline, barely visible now.

He whispered into the stillness: "We were never supposed to be heroes. Just survivors."

Then he straightened, wiped the blood from his knuckles, and walked back into the dark.

***

The chapel was half-collapsed.

Not from a bombing run or demon attack – just time. Age and sorrow had done the rest. One wall had caved years ago during the first wave, and no one ever rebuilt it. No one prayed here anymore. Not really.

Dan stepped into the alcove, boots echoing off chipped marble. The infirmary doors clicked shut behind him. This space was only a few metres away, but it felt like another world. Still. Empty. Honest.

Above him, the stained-glass window bled weak colours across the floor. An angel once adorned the centre pane, sword raised, halo bright. Now only fragments remained – a broken wing, a faded crown, eyes weathered into smears of grey. Light pushed through anyway, fractured into muted gold and blood-red.

Dan sat beneath it, spine straight, shoulders slumped. His golden halo pulsed low behind him – barely a glow now. No audience. No wounded. Just him.

His fingers found the chain inside his collar and drew it out.

A badge. Scorched and bent.

Max's.

The fire department insignia had been worn down, half-melted from the night their house burned. April died that night. Max almost did too. And Dan… Dan was a teenager, barely more than a terrified kid trying to hold a hose and pretend he wasn't drowning.

Max had dragged him out of that building.

Always ahead. Always first in. Always the shield.

Dan clenched the badge tight.

The metal bit into his palm. He welcomed it.

A flicker behind his eyes – memory.

Rain. Smoke. Screaming.

Max's arm slamming into Dan's chest, shoving him behind an overturned car.

"Stay down."

Dan shouted something – don't remember what – Max just turned, jaw bloody, holding nothing but a steel pipe.

"We save them first. Always."

Then he ran toward the demon.

Dan hadn't moved for twenty seconds. He'd been too scared.

He still remembered that shame. Still tasted it.

Afterwards, Max never mentioned it. Not once. Just handed Dan a bottle of water, ruffled his hair like it never happened, and said, "You're still standing. That's enough."

Dan had hated him for that. And loved him more for it.

I've kept people breathing, he thought. But he kept us believing.

He looked up at the angel's broken face.

"Max," he whispered.

There was no response. Of course not.

Dan didn't pray to God anymore. He hadn't in a long time. But he prayed to the idea of his brother – because if Max was still alive, if there was anything left of him past that footage, then he deserved to know someone still believed in him.

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Dan closed his eyes.

"If you're out there... hold on."

A breath. Tight in his throat.

"Just a little longer."

He pressed the badge to his forehead.

Then rose, golden light flickering anew.

***

The barracks lounge still smelled like metal and burnt coffee.

Low lights buzzed above, flickering slightly. Old wiring. One of the bulbs had gone black a month ago – no one had replaced it. No one really noticed anymore. People didn't come here to see. They came to stop seeing.

Alyssa sat in the corner booth, boots kicked off, one leg stretched across the bench, the other tucked under her thigh. Her black undershirt clung to her ribs, collar half-undone. Steam curled from a chipped mug on the table beside her. Her gauntlets lay open in front of her like disassembled beasts – half-oiled, half-scarred.

She looked up as Dan stepped in.

Took one glance at his face. Raised a brow.

"You look like shit."

Dan didn't answer. Just gave her a tired smirk and walked over.

He slid onto the bench beside her, slow like everything hurt. Maybe it did.

Alyssa didn't pull away when his hand touched her shoulder. She just leaned into it slightly, eyes still on the gauntlet she was polishing.

They'd never had a dramatic moment. No declarations. No first kiss under falling ash. Just time. Trust. Silence that didn't need filling.

It had started with a mission. Then two. Then ten.

Then it was the night she'd dislocated her shoulder dragging three survivors from a crater, and Dan had reset the joint with a golden touch. She hadn't even cursed. Just stared at him and said, "Guess angels bleed too."

He hadn't known what to say. But he stayed beside her the whole night anyway.

After that, it was her showing up outside the infirmary without a word. Him leaving an extra ration pack on her bunk. No conversation. No plan.

It had surprised them, at first. Her – used to fighting alone. Him – used to saving everyone but himself.

But then… it didn't.

Dan took a breath. "Liz wants to move tonight."

The rag in Alyssa's hand paused. She stared at the cracked plating in her palm. Then, softly: "Shit."

Dan nodded.

"She's leading the psychic wing. Going to scout ahead. Disrupt surveillance nets. Clear the insertion path herself."

Alyssa leaned back, scrubbed a hand through her sweat-damp hair, then muttered under her breath, "Reckless as hell."

Dan stayed silent. He knew Alyssa. Knew that tone meant more was coming.

She sighed, slumped into the cushions. "She's barely slept. Barely eats. I see it in her eyes – she's burning through herself to reach him."

Dan nodded.

She looked at him sideways. "Still gonna let her go?"

"I don't think we can stop her," he said. "But we can go with her. Make sure she doesn't burn alone."

Alyssa exhaled slowly, lips tugging into a half-smile. "Goddamn you're good at this righteous martyr shit."

Dan chuckled. "Someone has to be."

He nodded again. Slower this time. They sat there, the quiet ticking of cooling metal between them.

Alyssa glanced down at his hand. Reached for it. Her fingers laced through his, calloused and warm.

"You're not built for war, Dan," she said finally. "You're too kind."

"I know," he murmured.

His thumb traced a slow circle across her knuckle. Not to reassure her. Just to stay connected. Just to feel her there.

"That's why I have to be there," he said, voice lower now.

He looked up, met her gaze fully.

"Because if I'm not… who else will hold the line?"

Alyssa didn't answer.

She didn't need to. Her fingers curled tighter around his – calloused meeting calloused, weariness pressed against weariness.

There was no rush in it. No firework moment. Just warmth. Familiar. Grounded.

A touch that said: I see you. I trust you. I'm with you.

And in that quiet space between words, Dan didn't find clarity or strategy or even peace.

He found her.

And that was enough.

***

The door didn't open. It just… whispered. A soft shimmer of displaced air, a ripple of light – and then Chloe was there.

She phased in like mist, the last threads of her ghost-form trailing behind her boots. Her coat clung damply to her shoulders. Her skin was too pale. And though her expression stayed still, the slight tremor in her shoulders betrayed the truth.

Alyssa jolted upright on the bed, yanking her gauntlet off mid-polish.

"Jesus, Chloe— ever heard of knocking?"

Chloe blinked once. Then tried to smirk, but it didn't hold.

Dan stood slowly. "Hey."

He crossed the room without hesitation, hand brushing Chloe's shoulder – grounding her. The moment his palm settled, she stopped shivering.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice quiet.

Chloe didn't answer immediately. Her throat worked once. Then she nodded – then shook her head.

"I found him," she whispered.

Her voice shook, and when her gaze dropped to the floor, Dan saw it – the thousand-yard stare, the ghost still clinging to her spine.

"He… he didn't look human anymore," she added. "Like they carved the man out of him and left just enough to suffer."

And just like that, the mask cracked.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

Dan pulled her into a hug without thinking, arms wrapping around her small frame like she might vanish again if he didn't. Alyssa stood too, silent now. She hesitated, then stepped into the embrace – one arm around Chloe's back, the other against Dan's ribs.

They stood like that for a long time. No words. Just breath and contact and shared exhaustion.

Eventually, Chloe pulled back, wiping her cheek roughly with the heel of her palm. Her voice steadied.

"I saw Prague," she said. "It's too clean. Too quiet. That's never good."

Dan nodded slowly. "No predator makes a cage that peaceful unless it plans to keep something alive inside it."

Chloe didn't respond to that. She just sat down, exhaling hard. Alyssa offered her a mug of something hot. She didn't drink it. Just held it between both hands like it mattered.

Dan sat across from her, elbows on his knees. "And Liz?"

That brought a shadow to Chloe's face.

"She's fire," she said. "All flame, all direction. No hesitation. She scares the hell out of me sometimes."

"Yeah," Dan murmured.

"But even fire needs air," Chloe added. "And I don't know how long she can keep burning like this. Alone."

Silence fell again. Heavy this time.

Dan glanced at Chloe's fingers – her right hand trembled faintly, the mug rattling just once. He said nothing about it. Just leaned forward and placed a hand over hers.

"You did good," he said. "You made it back. You found Max. That's more than enough."

Chloe didn't smile. But her hand stilled beneath his.

Outside the window, the sky deepened into bruised purple. Wind traced the edges of the glass.

The three of them sat there in silence, staring east.

Toward Prague.

Toward the city that shouldn't still be standing.

Toward whatever waited inside.

***

The corridors were quiet, but not still. Something buzzed in the air—low, taut, electric. The kind of anticipation Dan had felt just before a firestorm broke containment. Everyone felt it now. The shift. The pull toward what came next.

He stepped out of the room with Alyssa and Chloe behind him. Down the narrow stairs, past the makeshift chapel, into the reinforced corridor that led to the armoury. His boots echoed on steel.

Victor was already there, standing before a diagnostic panel as his blade hummed in its charging sheath. He didn't look up but gave a faint nod of acknowledgment.

Victor spoke without turning. "You're late."

Dan shrugged. "Had to stop by the chapel. Say a prayer."

Victor tapped a button on the console. "To God?"

Dan glanced at him. "To Max."

That earned him a glance. Not a smile. But something close to respect.

Hana sat cross-legged on the floor, incense burning in a cracked ceramic dish. She murmured something in a language Dan didn't know, voice barely above a whisper. The smoke curled upward – spiral-thin, memory-shaped.

He exhaled, slow.

The gear was where he'd left it. Laid out neatly. Reverently, almost.

He didn't rush. There was no fanfare. Just movement. Ritual.

Golden shoulder plates, etched with protective runes in an old tongue. Radiant cloth wraps bound tight around his forearms. The chest plate, thinner than most, built to allow him room to breathe when healing drained him to the core. Each piece fitted with quiet clicks. Not for war. For purpose.

His fingers moved automatically, guided by repetition. But his mind wandered.

He remembered when Grimm suggested it – the armour, the halo, the image. "A beacon," Grimm had said. "People need to believe there's something divine still watching."

Dan had laughed at the time. He wasn't divine. He bled like anyone else. Dreamed smaller dreams. But it worked. Morale lifted. People survived a little longer.

And now, standing before the scarred mirror bolted to the armoury wall, he almost believed it himself.

Golden halo faint above his head. Gold-threaded plates gleaming in the dusk.

An angel.

That's what they called him.

But Dan only saw a tired man, trying to carry too many souls.

He adjusted the last strap on his chestguard, then rolled his shoulders once. Felt the weight settle. Felt the ache return. But stood taller anyway.

Behind him, Alyssa brushed past.

She didn't speak. Just caught him by the front of his armour and kissed him – firm, warm, brief but full of things unspoken. It wasn't a goodbye. Not yet. But it was close.

Chloe leaned against the far wall, half-shadowed, arms crossed. She met his eyes and gave a small, silent nod. Not approval. Just… solidarity.

And then the temperature shifted.

A pulse of heat. Of will.

Liz entered the armoury like a storm behind her own eyes.

Her red halo blazed wide, lighting the chamber in strokes of firelight. The tendrils of energy behind her shimmered like a banner in windless air.

She didn't pause. Didn't posture.

"We move at dusk," she said.

No argument. No questions.

Dan met her gaze. Then turned, checked his gear one last time.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection again – halo faint, armour scuffed but gleaming. Not divine. Not chosen. Just a man with too much love left in him to quit.

Dan squared his shoulders.

His hand hovered briefly over the keepsake in his chest pocket. Max's old badge. Still warm from where it had pressed against his heart.

He nodded once.

And followed.

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