The cathedral felt strangely alive again, as if rehabilitating from trauma and pretending it hadn't just been used as a chew toy by forces way above its pay grade. But at least it was still standing, thank the gods — cause that's what people do in cathedrals, though this one was a bit too shady for that.
The last curl of Gereon's cigar smoke drifted upward, outlining faint shapes that dissolved with disappointing delicacy.
Barachiel did not move.
Technically, she hadn't been moving for a while. She had been hidden, or so she believed.
Her presence didn't just go unnoticed — it gave up and left before anyone had a chance to miss it.
Her breath wandered off into some dimension that probably failed basic sound physics, and her consciousness hung around just outside perception like it was waiting for someone to buzz it in.
