The hum of the office’s central air conditioning mixed with the low murmur of voices from the break room as he made his way through the main floor, adjusting his cufflinks while nodding at Sarah from accounting. “Still crunching those quarterly numbers?” he called out, his tone carrying just enough of his usual sharp edge to be playful rather than intimidating. She looked up from her screen, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Trying to, boss. These spreadsheets are fighting me every step of the way.” He paused beside her desk, glancing at the colorful charts flickering on her monitor. “Add an extra column for contingency—we’ll need to account for the new vendor contracts. I’ll sign off on your overtime request first thing tomorrow.”
A few cubicles down, Marcus from the IT team waved him over, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on a tower of servers. “Everything running smooth?” he asked, leaning against the partition. Marcus shook his head, tapping a screwdriver against the metal casing. “Had a minor glitch with the security system earlier—kept flagging unauthorized access in the west wing. Already patched it up, but… something felt off about it. Like it wasn’t a system error.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, filing that away as he clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on it. If anything else comes up, don’t wait to notify me—even if it’s after hours.”
As the clock on the wall ticked past seven, most employees had packed up and headed home, leaving only the soft glow of scattered monitors and the occasional whir of a printer. He returned to his office, stacking fresh reports on his desk and rolling up his sleeves to tackle the backlog he’d promised to clear before the week’s end. Hours slipped by, and before he knew it, the city lights were twinkling outside his office window, the silence of the nearly empty building a familiar companion.
When the fluorescent lights in his office flickered erratically, casting long, dancing shadows, he looked up at them and sighed, a weary sound. He picked up his expensive leather bag, its weight a comforting anchor, and walked out the door, locking it behind him. As he walked past the rows of deserted cubicles and empty desks, the only sound the faint hum of electronics, he noticed a man still sitting at one of the desks, bathed in the pale glow of a monitor. He stopped, a flicker of his "terror boss" instinct kicking in. "Working late?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.
The man looked up, his face illuminated by the screen, and smiled. It was a wide, unnerving smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He didn't recognize the man; his mental database of employees was meticulously kept. So he added, a hint of his usual dry sarcasm in his tone, "You're awfully diligent for a new hire. Haven't seen you around before." But the man didn't respond with an introduction; instead, he slowly stood up and began to walk toward him, his movements fluid, almost languid. He stood his ground, a ripple of unease moving through him, as he watched the stranger approach, his internal alarms beginning to blare softly. Then the man suddenly stopped, just a few feet away, looked straight at him, and tilted his head to the side, as if inspecting a curious specimen, his smile unwavering.
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"So, it's you," the man remarked, his voice smooth, almost melodic, yet carrying an unsettling resonance, as if it spoke from a great distance.
He stood up straighter, asserting his dominance, trying to meet the man's unnerving gaze. "How was it?" he asked, his confusion warring with an instinctive defensiveness.
The man chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the empty office. Confused, he placed his bag on a nearby table, his hand lingering on the leather. The man’s eyes flickered to the bag, then back to him, his smile widening. "Is it in there? Oh! No. I don't feel that thing in there. It's a rather… potent aura, isn't it?"
He put both hands in his pockets, a habitual gesture of control, and asked, his voice steady despite the growing apprehension, "Who are you? And what do you want?"
The man, without answering, walked past him, and he instinctively turned around, following the stranger's movement with his eyes. The man paused at another employee's desk, reaching out a pale, slender hand to touch the vibrant potted flowers sitting there—ones that Jenny from marketing had carefully tended to every morning. The moment his fingers made contact, the flowers withered immediately, turning black and brittle, crumbling to dust with a soft whisper.
"You see, I don't understand. So, I want you to help me understand," the man said, turning back to him, his eyes now holding a cold, intellectual curiosity. When he remained silent, maintaining his unreadable expression, the man continued, "I'm not one of those pathetic creatures you've been dealing with, the ones who scream and squirm. So don't worry; I won't harm you. Not yet. I just want to understand why." He emphasized the word, making it a profound question, a cosmic inquiry.
When he still didn't respond, remaining unbothered, his composure unwavering, the man’s laughter echoed through the empty building, a chilling, almost delighted sound.
Then the man said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "When the moon bleeds, two hundred wishes will be granted. A curious cosmic anomaly, wouldn't you agree?"
The man stepped in front of him again, almost head-to-head, invading his personal space, his gaze like a laser. When he still didn't react, his face a perfectly constructed mask of impassivity, the man pulled away with a sigh, a flicker of something like disappointment crossing his features.
"You're really Michael’s child; you radiate his presence, his very essence. It’s almost... blinding." He turned back once more, but this time his gaze was a warning, a chilling promise of future confrontation. "It only makes me want to kill you more, So take care out there Son of Heaven; it would be heartbreaking to see you covered in Heaven's blood."
With that, the man shimmered, his form blurring, and disappeared into the dark, silent depths of the office, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and the unsettling echo of his words.
He shook his head, a single, decisive motion, and turned around to pick up his bag, needing the physical weight, the mundane reality of it. As he did, he saw Michael, the Archangel, standing in the distance, at the very end of the long hallway, a silent sentinel. Michael's look was stern, cold, and full of unyielding authority, as always, his presence a palpable force in the empty building. He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked away, knowing the Archangel wouldn't say a word about what that man meant by calling him his "son" or the chilling mention of "Heaven's blood." He knew Michael rarely offered explanations, only commands or silent judgment. The encounter had only added more questions to the burgeoning mystery of his existence, a cosmic ledger still waiting to be balanced, with him at its terrifying center.
