Chapter 34

There he stood, Saint Michael, or as he preferred now, God Michael. The sheer presence he exuded seemed to shift the very atmosphere of the room. Han, always the wise observer in situations like this, instinctively edged himself into a corner, trying to stay as far away from the impending storm as possible. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, thinking to himself, *Well, there goes my break.*

Michael let out a deep, weary sigh, rubbing his temples as if Azrael had already drained all the patience from him. His sharp blue eyes bore into the Archangel of Death with barely concealed frustration. "It was you, wasn't it, Azrael?" he asked, voice cold, yet controlled. His words felt less like a question and more like a quiet accusation.

Azrael, lounging with the same lazy demeanor, barely even bothered to lift his gaze. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific, brother," he replied, stretching out the last word with casual contempt. His face showed nothing but boredom. "What exactly are you accusing me of this time?"

Michael clicked his tongue, his expression tightening. His finger shot out toward Azrael's desk, pointing directly at the newspaper crumpled beneath scattered junk. "Don't play coy with me, Azrael. I can see the article right there." His voice was strained, holding back his anger. "It was reported that you forcibly took an angel out of the office—breaking a window in the process, mind you."

Azrael slowly turned his back to him, scratching the back of his head in mock thoughtfulness. "Hmm..." He glanced over his shoulder, the smirk forming on his lips barely hidden. "Sorry, 'God,' I think you've got the wrong Archangel. I just don't recall doing anything like that. And as for the newspaper..." He strolled over and casually picked it up, examining it as if it were some fascinating artifact. "I got it to read the news, that's all. It's not like I'm omniscient or anything."

The smirk on his face was infuriatingly smug, and Michael had clearly had enough. In a flash, he stomped over and slapped the newspaper right out of Azrael's hand, sending it crumpling back to the desk. "Stop feeding me your bullshit!" Michael's tone cracked, his control slipping. "No one else but you would pull something like this. You also gave that angel access to a Heavens Inventory—technology that is not only highly classified but extremely hard to create!" His hand ran through his perfect hair, the frustration evident in the gesture. "Why am I even humoring you? I know it was you, Azrael. Just admit it!"

Azrael let out a low chuckle, leaning back against his desk, utterly unbothered by Michael's fury. The glint in his eyes grew as if he were savoring every second of this confrontation. "Alright, alright," he finally said, his voice dripping with amusement. "You got me. I sent the kid. Happy now, big brother?"

Michael's fists clenched at his sides, the fury boiling under the surface of his composed exterior. His body was rigid with barely restrained rage, but Azrael's easygoing demeanor only made it worse. Han watched the interaction with wide eyes from his corner, thinking to himself that this was the sort of family drama only Heaven could create.

Without any warning, Michael's fist shot out, smashing into Azrael's face. The force of the blow sent the Archangel of Death crashing backward over his cluttered desk, papers, and debris scattering everywhere. "You irresponsible little brat!" Michael thundered, his usually composed voice raw with fury. 

In the corner, Han immediately straightened, his casual posture dissolving as his eyes widened. *Uh oh,* he thought, no longer leaning lazily against the wall. He shifted, preparing for what was about to unfold.

Azrael groaned as he staggered back to his feet, clutching the side of his face where the punch had landed. His red eyes glinted with both irritation and dark amusement. "Domestic abuse, Michael?" he sneered, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Brother, you're getting a little uncreative."

Michael didn't waste any time. In two furious strides, he was across the room, grabbing Azrael by the collar and slamming him against the office wall. The shelves rattled, and a precarious tower of books teetered dangerously. "Do you even realize what you've done?" Michael growled, his face inches from Azrael's, blue eyes blazing with righteous indignation.

Azrael, still defiant despite the blood trickling down his lip, met Michael's gaze head-on. "I let someone save people," he spat out, his tone dripping with mock innocence. 

Michael shook his head, his expression twisted with rage. "No, Azrael! You made a new-age, nameless, and halo-less angel save a world that brings us no value! A world that gives us no faith, no recognition, no divine energy in return! Do you even understand how understaffed we already are? You've set a dangerous precedent!" His voice rose, trembling with anger. "You've created a 'hero' that the other new-age angels are going to look up to—try to emulate. They'll get themselves killed trying to be just like him! You're making it even harder for us to protect the worlds that actually matter!"

Azrael's eyes narrowed, a predatory grin forming on his face. "I'm sure Father would have been proud to hear you talk like that, Michael," he said, his voice lowering to a deadly calm. "You sound more like a CEO worried about his stock prices than the Champion of Justice and Healer of the Sick."

The insult landed hard, and Michael's entire body stiffened with barely controlled rage. His fists clenched even tighter, his knuckles turning white.

But then Azrael delivered the final blow. "Lucifer was a better Archangel than you."

Something inside Michael snapped. His control shattered completely, and with a snarl, he lifted Azrael clean off the ground with one hand. His other fist drew back, trembling with divine fury, fully intending to strike not just to hurt, but to end Azrael.

Azrael's crimson eyes remained unflinching, boring into Michael's with an intensity that dared him to finish it.

But before Michael could unleash his wrath, he felt something cold and metallic press against the back of his head. A cocking sound followed immediately.

"Yeah, not gonna happen," came Han's calm voice from behind him, gun in hand. Without hesitation, Han pulled the trigger.

Bang.