"You always did stomp when you were mad. Heavy feet, heavy heart."

  The voice cut through the stagnant city air—familiar, smooth, and laced with a charisma that hadn't aged a single day.

  Angelo froze on the bottom step of the precinct, the biting night wind cutting instantly through his shirt, chilling the sweat on his skin. He didn't breathe. He didn't blink.

  Across the street, the figure pushed off the lamppost. He stepped into the pool of sickly yellow light, and the decade between them evaporated like steam. Sleeser looked infuriatingly unchanged. The same wiry, coiled energy. The same confident tilt of the head that suggested he knew the punchline to a joke everyone else missed. His battered sleeveless leather jacket still hugged his frame, worn smooth at the shoulders.

  And the hair—that impossible, gravity-defying riot of orange and yellow spikes—caught the streetlamp's glow, looking less like a hairstyle and more like a chemical fire burning in the gloom.

  A diamond-shaped pendant, framed in gold, glinted against his chest, catching a stray beam of light.

  But it was the eyes that pinned Angelo in place. Blue, electric, and terrifyingly knowing. They held that same reckless spark, undimmed by time or distance.

  For a heartbeat, the city vanished. The noise of the protesters faded. Angelo felt like an eight-year-old kid again, standing in the tall grass with dusty knees, waiting for his mentor to nod in approval.

  "Sleeser?" Angelo breathed, the name tasting like a ghost.

  "Hey, kid." Sleeser stepped closer, scuffing his boots against the curb. He flashed that trademark grin. "You look like hell warmed over. Rough day at the office?"

  "What is that fossil digging around here for?" Red snarled in the back of Angelo’s skull, waking up from a brooding sulk. "Thought he was hiding out in the mountains, braiding daisies."

  Angelo ignored the internal commentary, rubbing the exhaustion from his dry, gritty eyes. "What are you doing here, Sleeser?"

  "Border’s quiet. Too quiet." Sleeser shrugged, the motion rolling easily through his shoulders. "Figured I'd trade one war zone for another. Drop by, say hi to my favorite disaster."

  "Uh-huh," Red let out a skeptical snort that vibrated in Angelo's teeth. "So this is the first time 'border’s quiet' in two years? That checks out perfectly. If you're an idiot."

  Blue hummed, a cool frequency against the heat of Red’s anger. "Red makes a valid point," he noted, his tone clinical. "For once."

  "Oh, shove it, calculator."

  "Right..." Angelo eyed his mentor, his muscles tensing. "Just dropping by."

  Sleeser clocked the suspicion instantly. He didn't address it, he deflected it. He glanced around at the grim facade of the precinct, the concrete stark under the harsh streetlights. "This backdrop is depressing. It smells like bureaucracy and despair. Let's go somewhere with heat. I know a place that serves coffee that doesn't taste like battery acid."

  He leaned in, studying Angelo’s face with theatrical scrutiny. "You do drink coffee now, right? Or is this beard just a prop to scare the rookies?"

  "He got ya," Red cackled.

  Angelo felt a headache blooming behind his eyes, a dull throb syncing with his pulse. "I drink coffee. Yes." He sighed, the fight draining out of him for the moment. "Fine. Lead the way. I could use the distraction."

  They walked in silence for a block, cutting away from the main thoroughfare and into the gloom of the city park. The trees overhead formed a dark canopy, blotting out the stars.

  "So," Sleeser broke the silence, his tone casual but his eyes scanning the perimeter. "How's the special program treating you? The elites keeping you busy?"

  "Graduated," Angelo said flatly, kicking a stray pebble across the dry pavement. "Past tense."

  "Is that right?" Sleeser whistled low. "Hope you didn't slack on your training like you used to with me. I remember someone whining a lot about meditation."

  "Very funny." Angelo shot him a side-glance. "For your information, I improved across the board. My scores were perfect." He hesitated, a flash of pride breaking through his exhaustion. "I even mastered that energy tether technique you mentioned once."

  Sleeser stopped walking. His boots crunched on the dry leaves littered across the path. "You what?"

  Angelo stopped and turned, confused by the sudden halt. "What?"

  "I told you not to bother with that," Sleeser said, his voice dropping the playful edge. Disbelief washed over his face.

  Angelo blinked. "What do you mean 'not'—"

  "It's fragile as hell, Angelo. Not to mention insanely hard to control." Sleeser stepped closer.

  "Well, I mastered it anyway," Angelo said defensively, his jaw setting. He turned and marched off.

  Sleeser caught up a moment later, a rough chuckle escaping him. "Guess you can grab a beer from the fridge without getting off the couch now, huh?"

  Angelo rolled his eyes, but he kept walking. The park was deserted, the cold keeping the usual nighttime wanderers at bay. Wind curled around the iron benches like invisible snakes.

  Sleeser leaned in again, his tone shifting. It was subtle—the shift from mentor to investigator. "Hope you aren't causing any trouble out there, kid. I had to pull a lot of strings to get you into that program. Called in favors I didn't even know I had."

  Angelo stopped dead. The air around them seemed to drop a few degrees. "What makes you say that?"

  Sleeser turned slowly, his hands deep in his jacket pockets. He looked at the trees, then back at Angelo. "No reason. Just making sure the investment is sound."

  "He's full of it!" Red screamed, the mental voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I can feel the lie on him! He's hunting!"

  Blue remained silent, but his presence was a heavy, calculating weight in the back of Angelo’s mind.

  "You're not here for coffee, are you?" Angelo asked, his voice low.

  Sleeser looked at him for a long moment. Then, he sighed, and the mask slipped. The playful uncle vanished. The soldier remained.

  "No," Sleeser said softly. "I'm not."

  Angelo took a step back, the betrayal sharp. "Then why are you here?"

  Sleeser didn't answer immediately. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper. It was crumpled from being jammed in his pocket. He smoothed it out slowly, methodically, his eyes scanning the text as if hoping it had changed since he last looked.

  He shook his head, a gesture of profound disappointment, and tossed it at Angelo's feet. It landed with a sharp slap on the pavement.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  "What are you doing, Angelo?"

  Angelo looked down. The headline screamed up at him in bold, black ink, stark against the grey pavement: THE ANGEL OF DEATH OUT FOR BLOOD.

  Angelo stared at the paper, then lifted his gaze to his former mentor. Under the moonlight and the streetlamps, Sleeser’s blue eyes seemed to glow with an inner, terrible light.

  "I knew about the 'Angel of Death' thing," Sleeser said, his voice devoid of humor. "I've known for a while. I kept quiet. I thought it was a phase. I thought Ramirez would have a leash on you."

  "If it was up to Ramirez, I'd be in a cell rotting," Angelo snapped, the defense automatic. Then he froze. Wait. If Ramirez wanted him gone, why did the Chief let him walk free tonight?

  "Why are you doing this, Angelo?" Sleeser stepped closer, ignoring the chill wind. "I know you had it rough. I know everything you went through. But that is not an excuse to become an executioner."

  "Because," Angelo started, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Because the system is broken. Because if staring death in the face doesn't change a man..."

  "...nothing will."

  Sleeser finished the sentence. The color drained from his face. His eyes went wide, horror dawning in them like a sunrise over a battlefield. "No. No, no, no. Angelo..." He reached out a hand, then pulled it back. "Don't tell me you—"

  "I am," Angelo intoned, his voice hollow, filled with a terrible, cold purpose. "I took the words you told me to heart. I'm applying them. It's my philosophy now."

  Sleeser felt his stomach turn over. The memory of that day—the blood, the fire, the screaming—came rushing back to haunt him. He could hear the young Angelo’s voice echoing in the wind, brittle and broken: "I'm a killer... I'm a murderer..."

  And his own desperate response: "Angelo! ANGELO! LOOK AT ME!"

  Sleeser stared into the abyss of his student's eyes and realized, with a sinking heart, that the abyss was staring back.

  "That’s… That’s not—" Sleeser stammered, the confidence cracking.

  "Not…?" Angelo cut him off, tilting his head. "Not what?"

  "That is not what I meant!" Sleeser snapped, the frustration bleeding through. He jabbed a finger at the crumpled newspaper. "I told you that to help you survive the guilt! To help you come to terms with a tragedy, not to... not to justify this!"

  Angelo stood motionless, a statue carved from ice. "I’ve run the calculus, Sleeser. I thought long and hard about those words. Eventually, I realized you were right. Fear of death is the only currency the underworld respects. It is the ultimate motivator. Those who won't change course even when facing the their demise? They are beyond redemption. By ending them, I am protecting their future victims."

  Sleeser’s mouth opened, then closed. He began to pace in a tight circle, running both hands through his spikes, tugging at the roots.

  Finally, he stopped and whirled around. "Look. Taking a life... it’s a stain, Angelo. It changes the texture of your soul. You have no idea—"

  "Actually, I do."

  "NO, YOU DON'T!"

  Sleeser’s scream tore through the quiet park. His eyes blazed, the blue shifting to a violent, roiling orange against the dark sky. The air around them grew instantly hot, smelling of ozone.

  "I get it!" Sleeser roared. "You think you're the hero! Hell, I'll even admit your intentions are pure. But Angelo, you know exactly which road is paved with good intentions."

  Angelo didn't flinch. His own eyes flared, mirroring the orange glow, meeting fire with fire. "If I have to burn in hell to fix what's broken in this world, I'll bring the matches myself."

  Sleeser’s jaw clenched tight enough to grind teeth. "Dammit, Angelo! Why can't you listen to reason?!"

  "Reason? You haven't given me one solid counter-argument!" Angelo stepped forward, aggressive. "You're just pissed that I'm not the scared little kid you can boss around anymore! You hate that I outgrew you."

  "How dare you!"

  "You know what? I’m done." Angelo’s voice dropped to an infuriating, deadly calm. "You disappear for two years, ghost everyone, then show up out of nowhere to lecture me? Hard pass."

  He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

  "W-where do you think you’re going?!" Sleeser called out, his voice cracking.

  Angelo didn’t stop. "HOME!"

  Sleeser stood trembling. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. The frustration boiled over, a pressure vessel rupturing. He let out a scream of pure, impotent rage.

  BOOM.

  His aura exploded outward. It wasn't an attack, but a release. A shockwave of condensed heat and force rippled through the park.

  Angelo turned too late. The force hit him like a physical wall, lifting him off his feet and slamming him onto his back. He groaned, the wind knocked out of him, and lifted his head. "What the hell is wrong with you!?"

  Sleeser stood amidst the swirling dust and dry leaves, his chest heaving. The orange aura flickered around him weakly, like a dying candle. He looked down at his hands, then at Angelo, defeat slumping his shoulders.

  "Fine. I get it." Sleeser’s voice was quiet, terrifyingly resigned. "My words can no longer reach you. I see that now."

  He walked slowly toward Angelo. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at the young man he had once saved. "If I can’t break this black-and-white worldview of yours, then life will just have to do it for me."

  He took a step back, the soldier retreating from a lost battle. "Remember this, Angelo. Someday, something will come around and shatter that glass house you've built." He looked over his shoulder, his eyes sad. "I just hope you don’t shatter along with it."

  With a sudden burst of speed, Sleeser leapt. He cleared the park fence in a single bound, disappearing into the shadows of the city, leaving Angelo in the ringing silence.

  Angelo slowly rose to his feet, dusting off his jacket. He looked up at the indifferent moon, his mind a whirlwind.

  "Blue," he whispered. "You've been quiet. Come out and share your thoughts."

  Azure smoke poured from Angelo’s pores like morning mist. It swirled, condensing into a humanoid shape before solidifying. Blue stood with perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back, adjusting invisible spectacles. He was calm, collected—a stark contrast to the chaotic heat of the encounter.

  "What difference would my opinion make, Angelo? Do tell." Blue asked, his voice cool and reverberating. "Even if my perspective differed, who determines the objective truth?"

  Angelo's eyes flared orange again. "Enough with the cryptic bullshit!"

  Blue sighed—the sound of a tired librarian. He locked eyes with Angelo. His own eyes piercing ice blue against Angelo’s fire. "The world is not binary, Angelo. Every decision is a prism, refracting consequences in directions you cannot predict. Instead of obsessing over 'right,' simply acknowledge the cost. Choose the burden you can carry."

  Angelo’s shoulders sagged. The orange in his eyes faded to brown.

  "Ugh, you are absolutely insufferable!"

  Crimson smoke erupted from Angelo’s left side, forming into the jagged, twitching form of Red. "Did you swallow a philosophy textbook?" Red threw his hands up. "Boring!"

  Blue looked at Red with profound disdain. "A simpleton could never comprehend nuance." He crossed his arms.

  "Very well." Angelo looked between his two halves. "Then I stand by my conviction. If I let a monster walk, and they kill again, that blood is on me. That is a burden I cannot carry. If they want to call me the Angel of Death for that... so be it."

  Blue nodded once, dissolving back into azure mist that streamed into Angelo’s chest. "Understand this—there will be times that put your convictions to the test."

  "I'm sure there will," Angelo murmured.

  Red grinned, revealing sharp teeth, before dissolving into crimson smoke. "You're just overthinking it! Do what feels right and screw the consequences!"

  Angelo stood alone in the dark park, the silence heavier than before.

  Minutes Later

  Chief Ramirez was reaching for his coat, ready to leave the weight of the city behind for a few hours, when the outer door to his office crashed open.

  "Chief!"

  Sleeser stormed in, bringing the frantic energy of the street with him. Vivian was skidding on her heels behind him, clutching his bicep with both hands in a futile attempt to restrain him.

  "Wait! You can’t just barge in here!" Vivian pleaded, panic rising in her voice.

  Ramirez paused, his hand hovering over the coat rack. He didn't flinch. He raised a hand. "At ease, Lieutenant. Leave us."

  "I— Yes sir." Vivian released Sleeser, straightened her uniform, and retreated, casting a worried glance back before closing the door.

  Sleeser marched up to the desk, slamming his hands down on the mahogany. "Ramirez, listen to me. You cannot arrest him. I know he screwed up, I know the press is screaming, but if you put him in a cage—"

  "Relax, Sleeser." Ramirez cut him off, his voice calm, tired. "I didn't arrest him. I suspended him."

  Sleeser blinked, the wind taken out of his sails. "You... you what?"

  Ramirez waved a dismissive hand, finally grabbing his coat. "Don’t look so shocked. Think about it. If I arrest him, half the city riots to free their 'hero.' If I do nothing, the other half burns down the station demanding justice. Suspension makes him a ghost. It was the only tactical play."

  Sleeser slowly straightened up, exhaling a breath he’d been holding since he crossed the city limits. "I see. You benched him to save him." He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, it might take a while, but I’m sure I can reach out to—"

  A shrill ringtone cut him off.

  Sleeser flinched. He pulled a battered device from his pocket. One look at the caller ID drained the color from his face. He held up a finger. "Sorry."

  He answered, his voice snapping to military precision. "Status?"

  "Where the hell are you?!" The Commander’s voice was loud enough for Ramirez to hear from across the desk. "We have a Class-six breach at sector eight! We need Sigma!"

  Sleeser’s eyes went wide. "I’m on my way. Tell the squad to follow the train tracks heading to Novaria. I'll meet them halfway."

  He ended the call and looked at Ramirez, his expression grim. "I’m needed. Badly." He hesitated, torn between the crisis and his student. "Please, Chief. Look after the kid. He’s got a good heart. It's just... buried."

  "Whether I help him or not," Ramirez opened the door for him, "is entirely up to him. Go. Good hunting, Sleeser."

  Sleeser bit his lip, glancing toward the distant skyline where the city park was swallowed by the darkness. He wanted to run back there, to find Angelo and fix what was broken. But the phone in his hand vibrated again—a reminder that duty didn't care about regret. With a heavy heart, he turned and sprinted into the night, heading for the train tracks to intercept his squad, leaving Angelo to walk his dark path alone.