Los Angeles never truly slept. Even at midnight, the city buzzed with a restless hum, a mixture of neon, engines, and the whispers of thousands of souls who couldn't find peace. But tonight, there was a different silence, a suffocating stillness that pressed against the walls of a run-down apartment tucked away in South Central.
Maxwell Halloway sat hunched at a wooden desk, its surface cluttered with open books, faded photographs, and the gleam of a weapon that didn't belong in this world. A silver-forged sword, faintly etched with runes, lay across the table like an unspoken reminder of who he was.
His unruly blond hair caught the flicker of the single lamp above him, shadows dancing across his face. His sea-gray eyes were fixed on nothing, distant and heavy with memories he couldn't shake. He was young, barely twenty-two, but his heart carried a weight that men twice his age could not bear.
He was Nephilim, born of angel and human.
The word itself was curse and blessing. He had his mother's compassion, his father's light, and an inheritance that made him both target and weapon. Demons could sense his blood like wolves scenting prey. Every time he stepped outside, he felt the invisible stares, the pull of darkness waiting to drag him under.
His mother's death replayed in his mind with cruel persistence. He could still hear her voice, hoarse and breaking, as she had clutched his face in her trembling hands:
"Maxwell… they will stop at nothing to destroy you. But you must not give in. You are stronger than they know."
She had died shielding him from the claws of a demon that night, her body torn apart before his eyes. He'd been powerless—only sixteen then. It was the day his childhood ended, and the day he learned what he truly was.
Maxwell leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, trying to drown the memory with silence. But silence, too, could betray him. He felt it now—a pressure in the air, subtle, like the moments before a storm breaks.
And then, the knock came.
It was sharp. Urgent.
Maxwell's hand instantly gripped the hilt of the sword on his desk. The blade seemed to hum faintly, responding to the tension in his body. Rising, he crossed the room silently, every sense sharpened. His eyes flicked toward the window—dark streets, nothing unusual. But his instincts whispered caution.
He reached the door, pressed an eye to the peephole,
—and his heart skipped.
Father Anthony.
The man was older now, streaks of gray showing in his dark hair, his face carved with the lines of someone who had seen too much of evil's handiwork. He wore his priest's collar, though it was slightly loosened as if he'd come in haste. His hand was raised, ready to knock again.
Maxwell exhaled slowly, relief and unease mingling. Father Anthony was no stranger. He had once taken Maxwell in, years ago, after his mother's death. Back then, Anthony hadn't understood what Maxwell was. He had mistaken his powers for possession and had tried to exorcise him. It had almost killed them both. But in time, the truth became clear: Maxwell was not possessed. He was born between two worlds.
Maxwell slid the lock and opened the door a fraction, sword hidden behind the doorframe.
"Father Anthony," he said cautiously, his voice low.
The priest's eyes widened as they met Maxwell's. "Thank God you're still alive," Anthony breathed, his tone urgent. "We don't have much time. May I come in?"
Maxwell hesitated, instincts flaring. He had learned not to trust anyone too easily. But Anthony's eyes, tired, desperate, yet sincere, pulled at him. Finally, he stepped aside.
The priest entered, making the sign of the cross instinctively as his eyes swept the room. He noticed the sword almost immediately, and though his brow furrowed, he said nothing.
"Close the door, Maxwell," Anthony urged. "And listen carefully. This city… this world is standing on the edge of something it has never faced before. The end of days is nearer than we think."
Maxwell's grip on the sword tightened. His stomach churned with unease.
"The end of days?" he asked. "What do you mean?"
Anthony's gaze hardened. "I mean Armageddon, Maxwell. And you… you may be the only one who can stop it."
Maxwell stared at the priest, searching his face for some hint of exaggeration, but Anthony's expression was stone. There was no trace of a joke, no hint of metaphor. Only raw conviction.
"You've said strange things before," Maxwell muttered, setting the sword against the wall. "But Armageddon? That's prophecy talk. Fire and brimstone. You really expect me to believe it's about to happen here?"
Anthony removed a worn leather satchel from his shoulder and placed it on the desk. He unbuckled the clasp with trembling fingers, pulling out a bundle of parchment and a battered tome. Maxwell recognized it instantly—the Codex Angelorum. He had seen it only once, years ago, when Anthony had been too drunk to guard his words.
The Codex was said to contain fragments of Heaven's own script—prophecies recorded by angels, some fulfilled, some yet to come. Few mortals had ever laid eyes on it.
Anthony's hand rested on the cover as though steadying himself. "This week alone," he began, his voice strained, "three churches have been desecrated. In each, the priests were killed, their blood used to paint sigils I haven't seen in centuries. These are not random attacks. They are coordinated."
Maxwell's chest tightened. "By demons."
"Not just demons," Anthony corrected. "Cultists. Humans willing to open themselves to possession, to bind their souls in exchange for power. They are the scaffolding for something darker."
He flipped the Codex open, its pages yellowed, the ink shifting faintly as though alive. He turned to a marked passage and pushed it toward Maxwell. "Read this."
Maxwell leaned over. His eyes traced the words, though some twisted and writhed on the page. Still, he managed to decipher enough:
When the vial of eternal blood is broken, the gates shall weaken, and the one who was cast down shall stretch his hand upon the world once more.
Maxwell swallowed hard. "The vial…?"
Anthony nodded gravely. "A relic hidden centuries ago, buried beneath this very city. The blood of the Lamb, mixed with the essence of angels who fell at the dawn. If it is found and corrupted, the gates of Hell will rupture. Armageddon won't be prophecy—it will be reality."
The room seemed colder now. Maxwell folded his arms, trying to mask the unease prickling under his skin. "And where do I come in?"
Anthony fixed him with eyes burning with belief. "Because of what you are. Nephilim are abominations to some, yes—but to Heaven, you are a bridge. Flesh and spirit. If anyone can touch the vial without being consumed, it's you."
Maxwell turned away, pacing across the cramped room. Memories of his mother's torn body surged back, demons' laughter echoing in his head. He clenched his fists. "I've spent years just trying to survive, Anthony. Every day I fight to keep the darkness off my back. And now you're telling me it's my responsibility to save the world?"
Anthony's voice dropped, softer now, almost fatherly. "Maxwell… you've been fighting shadows your whole life. But this—this is the battle you were born for."
For a long moment, silence filled the room. Maxwell's chest rose and fell with the weight of everything unsaid. He wanted to reject it, to tell Anthony to walk out and leave him alone. But deep down, he knew. His whole life had been leading here.
Finally, he spoke, his voice rough. "Where do we start?"
Anthony's shoulders sagged with relief. He closed the Codex gently, as if sealing a pact. "We start where the darkness festers deepest—beneath the city. The old catacombs. That's where they're gathering, and that's where the search for the vial begins."
Maxwell picked up his sword, the runes along its blade glinting faintly in the lamplight. For the first time in months, he felt purpose instead of dread.
But as he strapped the weapon to his back, a thought whispered in his mind—a shadow not born of demons but of doubt:
If this is truly the end of days… will even I be enough to stop it?