Azrael's home

The scene was sickeningly similar. Diego's hands gripped Lyssana violently, his face twisted in that same grotesque expression of control and cruelty. Lyssana was struggling, her body bruised, her spirit defiant but weakening.

She was struggling, crying, and calling out Rage's name while Diego rammed himself into her without stopping.

Azrael clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as the memory of his father flashed in his mind. The pain and rage he had buried for so long resurfaced like a tidal wave. But he didn't move—yet.

His plan was working. He had orchestrated this. He had led Diego into his own trap, knowing the man's depravity would eventually reveal itself. But it didn't lessen the disgust Azrael felt, watching history repeat itself—to the one who made it first.

Diego laughed; madness laced in his voice as though he was rejoicing that the whispers in his ears were finally fulfilled by him. He remained oblivious to Azrael's presence.