Chapter 1: An Angel's Offer

The night descended like a shroud over the city, its once vibrant streets now ablaze under the wrath of war.

Amidst the ruin stood a solitary figure on the precipice of a crumbling building.

Franklin, a middle-aged man worn by the burdens of life and conflict, was poised at the edge, his gaze locked on the distant horizon.

Behind him, remnants of his past life lay discarded—a pair of military boots and a neatly folded uniform, the emblem of a torn Nazi symbol marking a severance from his former allegiance.

His breath, ragged and trembling, echoed in the smoky air as he inched his bare feet closer to the void.

Below, the city writhed in chaos. Explosions thundered in the distance, punctuated by the anguished cries of unseen souls.

The acrid smoke billowed into the night, occasionally parting to reveal a canopy of stars—a stark contrast to the hell that unfolded beneath.

With tears glistening in his eyes, a testament to a spirit broken yet defiant, Franklin made his decision.

He leapt, surrendering to the void, his face contorted in a silent scream as the wind whisked away his tears.

As the ground rushed to meet him, time seemed to relent, drawing out his descent into an eternal moment.

Then, just as abruptly as he had jumped, he halted. The chaotic backdrop of fire and noise receded, reversing its course until he found himself once again on the building's edge.

There, a surreal figure awaited him—an angel, majestic in form, with wings that seemed to capture the very essence of grace.

The angel gently set Franklin back onto the ledge. Dazed, Franklin opened his eyes wide, his mind struggling to piece together the reality of his survival.

His attention shifted reluctantly from his unexpected savior to the uniform jacket now draped over his shoulders.

The Nazi symbol, previously removed, was now inexplicably restored. Recoiling in disgust, Franklin flung the jacket aside and, in his haste, nearly plummeted once more.

"Whoa there, let's not make me save you again," the Guardian Angel chided with a hint of amusement, steadying him with a firm hand. The jacket reappeared on his shoulders as if by magic.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, Franklin studied the angel's ethereal features, a mix of curiosity and desperation coloring his tone.

"What are you?" Franklin asked, his voice a mix of awe and fear, seeking answers that might explain the impossible.

The angel's reply, though expected, would unfold truths that were as much a mystery to the celestial being as to Franklin himself.

The air around them seemed to still, the fiery chaos momentarily forgotten as the Guardian Angel responded to Franklin's despair with a voice imbued with eternal calm.

"I'm just here to help. Are your toes getting cold too?" the angel asked, a hint of playfulness in their tone that belied the gravity of the situation.

As if on cue, the boots that had been discarded by Franklin now miraculously reappeared on his feet.

The suddenness of it caused him to stagger, almost sending him over the edge again. He caught himself just in time, a frustrated frown creasing his brow as he looked down, contemplating the dark abyss below.

"You don't want to do that," the angel intervened softly, yet with a firm resolve.

"And how do you know what I want?" Franklin retorted sharply, his voice thick with emotion and weariness.

"You want to feel warm. You want to feel needed. Isn't that why you bundled up in that uniform and joined the war?" the angel replied, their voice echoing in the smoky air, a reminder of choices made and paths taken.

"That was a mistake. You saving me was a mistake. Go do your angel work on someone else..." Franklin's words were bitter, his gaze averted as he prepared to make another desperate leap.

But this time, as he dove, he landed abruptly—face first on the cold, hard surface of the roof.

He curled up, cradling his head, now throbbing with a fresh ache. His body shuddered as he drew himself into a fetal position, the pain a stark reminder of his failed escape.

"See, that's the thing, Franklin, I'm not just any angel that can go help someone else. I'm here to help YOU. I'm your personal guardian angel," the angel explained, kneeling beside him with a patience born of eternity.

"That fall hurt. Couldn't you have lifted me up gently like last time?" Franklin's voice was muffled, his face hidden in his arms.

"I tried to warn you," the angel responded, a touch of sorrow threading through their words.

"Warn me about what exactly? About the fall? About my bad decisions? Where were you when I needed someone to warn me about the war?" Franklin's voice rose with each question, his frustration boiling over into anger.

"About what... that people are evil, and evil things happen in this world?" the angel finally said, their tone gentle yet carrying an immutable truth.

This exchange between Franklin and his guardian angel revealed layers of his inner turmoil and the complex interplay of fate, choice, and redemption.

The rooftop, engulfed by the war-torn city's ambient chaos, became a stage for these revelations, each word from the angel aimed at guiding Franklin back from the brink, not just physically but spiritually.

Franklin's words were tinged with self-loathing, his gaze hollow as he faced the celestial being before him. "Not just people, ME. I'm evil. You should know that better than anyone if you really are who you claim to be."

The air between them thickened, charged with the weight of his confession.

The angel, unflinching, regarded him with a depth of understanding that seemed to pierce through the darkness of the night.

"You don't have to be evil anymore..." the angel replied softly, their voice a soothing balm against the harshness of Franklin's self-judgment.

Franklin paused, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his hardened exterior. "You know... I was really hoping you would tell me I'm not evil and convince me otherwise. You're right, and I'm trying to get rid of this evil."

"I can't let you jump, Franklin," the angel asserted, their tone firmer now, the command resonant with a protective fervor.

"Let me? This is my choice. You can't take that away from me," Franklin countered, his defiance a mask for the despair lurking beneath.

"Have a seat," the angel suggested gently, an invitation rather than an order.

As if moved by an unseen force, the environment around them shifted dramatically.

The ledge and the burning building faded into the background, replaced by the surreal normalcy of a park bench amidst the ongoing apocalypse.

The city continued its chaotic dance of destruction around them, people screaming and running, their figures blurred by the speed of their desperation.

Franklin, taken aback by the sudden change, looked to the angel with confusion etching his features.

The Guardian Angel, maintaining their composure amid the surreal setting, gestured broadly at the devastation.

"Have a look at the mess you've made," they said, their voice carrying a hint of sternness.

Franklin's eyes widened in disbelief. "You can't be an angel. Only a demon would torture me before I try to end my life."

"Is it guilt that you feel? Or is it shame? If you truly felt remorseful for your transgressions, you would take responsibility," the angel replied, their words cutting to the core of Franklin's torment.

This exchange deepened the psychological and philosophical exploration of Franklin's character, laying bare the internal conflicts and moral dilemmas that haunted him.

The angel, serving as both a mirror and a guide, challenged Franklin to confront his past actions and their consequences, pushing him toward a journey of redemption that was as much about personal salvation as it was about atoning for the sins he perceived himself guilty of.

As Franklin uttered his grim resolve, the Guardian Angel countered with a gentle firmness that seemed to echo through the crumbling cityscape. "The Franklin that I know would atone for his sins, not submit to death."

"Who have you been guarding? Who is this Franklin that I don't know?" Franklin's voice was laced with confusion and a faint trace of desperation, his identity and past actions clashing within him.

The angel paused, their gaze drifting over the chaotic scene, a reflective silence falling between them.

It was broken by a small, desperate act of survival—a hand emerging from a pile of rubble, waving feebly in the air as if reaching for the heavens themselves.

Nearby, an elderly Asian man in a wheelchair maneuvered himself towards the frail hand.

With great effort, he dismounted from his wheelchair to gain better leverage and pulled at the hand with all his might.

"I've been guarding a scared crippled young man for some time now. For over thirty years he's been avoiding my help. I know that he desperately wants it, NEEDS it," the angel explained, their voice soft yet filled with an intense passion. "I can see his hand reaching out, but he's buried under a pile of baggage he isn't willing to let go. He can't see me, he can't see the potential I see in him."

The scene unfolded further as the old man successfully pulled a little girl from the debris.

They embraced, a moment of pure relief and human connection amidst the devastation. The girl coughed up dust and cried into the man's shoulder, a poignant image of survival and hope.

The angel turned to Franklin, who had been silently observing the scene, a look of deep contemplation on his face.

"I'm buried too deep. No one can pull me free. There's too much to atone for, so many things I can't change or fix. The only relief I'll receive is death. That's the decision I've made. I think our conversation is done here. Take me back to the ledge," Franklin said, his voice resigned yet tinged with an underlying plea for some form of redemption he felt he could no longer grasp.

As Franklin rose to leave, he unexpectedly bumped into Goh, the elderly man he had just witnessed performing the rescue. Goh was now being pushed down the street by Sumi, the young girl he had saved.