The rain started for people suddenly, as if the sky had decided to wash the grime off the streets of Los Angeles. I walked through Skid Row, the city's most blighted district, where despair soaked every brick, every alley corner. This was where the system's rejects gathered: junkies, the homeless, death dealers in human skin.
It was here that I felt him—a soul's call, standing at a crossroads.
Jaden Morelli, nineteen years old. A pale, gaunt guy with sharp eyes and restless hands that couldn't find peace. The son of a math teacher and a nurse, an honor student who dreamed of becoming an engineer. Until last year. Until heroin entered his life through a "friend" who turned out to be a dealer. Until addiction devoured his future, like acid corroding metal.
Now he stood in an abandoned warehouse on Main Street, clutching a gun—real, not a toy like Emma's. In the pocket of his worn jacket were fifty dollars—all he'd managed to steal from his mother's stash. Enough for one hit. Maybe the last.
Across from him stood Vincent "Scorpion" Rodriguez, a local kingpin who controlled the drug trade within a ten-block radius. Forty-two years old, bald, with a scar slashing across his face and the dead eyes of a man who'd long forgotten what empathy felt like. Behind him—two guards with automatic rifles.
"So, kid," Scorpion toyed with a toothpick, his voice like the screech of rusted metal. "You owe me two grand. Plus interest. Plus a late fee. That's four large."
"I've only got fifty," Jaden tried to hide the tremor in his voice. "But I've got this."
He raised the gun with shaking hands. The weapon was too big for him, heavy and alien.
"Wanna pay in lead?" Scorpion laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "You know what, kid? I like you. You've got balls. So here's a deal."
"What deal?"
"See that old man?" Scorpion nodded across the street, where a gray-bearded homeless man sat against a wall with a dog. "Albert Stein. Former philosophy professor, believe it or not. Drank himself into a vegetable after his wife died. Been living here three years now."
Jaden stared at him, confused.
"And?"
"And the old geezer's seen too much. You know how heroin dealers feel about witnesses?" Scorpion pulled out a cigarette and lit it slowly. "Kill him. One shot to the head. Your debt's wiped. Plus, you get a free hit."
"What?" Jaden took a step back. "I can't… He hasn't done anything!"
"Exactly. He's done nothing. Doesn't work, doesn't contribute, just takes up space. You're young, you've got your whole life ahead of you." Scorpion took a drag and blew smoke in the kid's face. "Choose. Either you kill the old man, or my boys kill you. And your mom, by the way. Family answers for debts too."
Jaden went pale.
"You can't…"
"I can. And I will." There was no anger or pleasure in Scorpion's voice—just cold, businesslike pragmatism. "So decide fast. Time is money."
I watched the scene from the roof of a neighboring building, feeling the darkness thickening around Jaden's soul. He was on the edge. One more second, and he'd be a murderer forever. One more moment, and innocent blood would stain his hands.
It was time to act.
I leaped down, landing silently in the shadows between containers. In human form, my abilities were self-limited, but still sufficient for what I had planned. Strength wasn't needed here.
"Hey, Scorpion!" I called, stepping out of the shadows.
Everyone turned except him. The guards instantly trained their rifles on me.
"Who the fuck are you?" Scorpion said without turning.
"Someone who doesn't like how you do business."
"Listen, asshole, if you're a cop, where's your badge? If you're not, get lost while you still can." He turned and studied me closely.
"Not a cop. And I'm not leaving." I took a step forward. "I've got a business proposition for you."
Scorpion snorted but gestured for the guards to hold.
"Talk."
"I'll buy the kid's debt. Four grand, right?"
"Plus interest for the trouble. Five large." The dealer's eyes gleamed. "Got the cash?"
"I do." I pulled a wad of hundred-dollar bills from my pocket. "But not for free. I want two minutes alone with the kid."
"Two minutes, then the money." Scorpion nodded to the guards. "Step back, but keep him in your sights."
I approached Jaden. Up close, his torment was clear: sunken cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, trembling hands. Withdrawal was eating him alive, but a flicker of human reason still burned in his eyes.
"What's your name?" I asked quietly.
"Jaden," he muttered. "Who are you?"
"A friend. Lower the gun."
"I can't. If I don't kill the old man, Scorpion will kill me. Then my mom." His gaze darted frantically, searching for an escape.
"No, he won't." I gently touched his gun hand. He looked at me. "I'll pay your debt. You're free."
"What? Why?" His voice mixed hope and disbelief. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough. I know you don't want to kill. I know somewhere inside you, the boy who dreamed of building bridges, not destroying lives, is still alive."
Jaden glanced at the old man with the dog, then back at me.
"What if I relapse? What if I start using again?"
"Then that'll be your choice. But today, you have a chance to choose differently."
Slowly, very slowly, Jaden lowered the gun.
"Time's up!" Scorpion shouted. "Where's my money?"
I tossed him the banded stack of bills. He counted, nodded, and pocketed the cash.
"Pleasure doing business with a paying customer." He turned to Jaden. "Consider yourself lucky, kid. Next time, think before you rack up debts."
Scorpion and his men left, leaving us alone with the old man and his dog. Jaden stood frozen, unable to believe what had happened.
"I'm free?" he whispered.
"From the debt—yes. From the addiction—that's up to you."
I approached the old man. Albert Stein was indeed a philosopher—I saw it in the lines of his face, the way he held his head, the depth of his gaze, not as clouded by alcohol as Scorpion thought.
"Professor," I said quietly. "How are you?"
The old man looked up at me, surprised.
"No one's called me professor in a long time." His voice was raspy but carried traces of former intellect. "Albert Stein. And you, young man?"
"Michael. Just Mik."
"Beautiful name. Archangelic." Albert smiled. "Thank you for what you did. I heard the conversation. The kid's good, just lost."
"You were ready to die?"
The old man shrugged, scratching his dog's ear—an aging shepherd with kind eyes.
"After Martha died, life lost its meaning. Three years I've lived here, like a ghost. Maybe it was time…" He didn't finish.
"What if I told you your death today would've saved one soul from murder but condemned another to eternal darkness?"
Albert looked at me thoughtfully.
"A philosophical dilemma. Can one life be sacrificed to save another soul?" He stroked the dog. "But you found a third path. Saved both."
"For now." I crouched beside him. "Professor, what if you still have a chance to find meaning?"
"At my age? In my condition?"
"Jaden," I called to the kid. "Come here."
He approached uncertainly, still clutching the unloaded gun.
"Jaden, meet Professor Albert Stein. Albert, this is Jaden. He wants to be an engineer but got lost along the way."
The old man studied the kid closely.
"What field of engineering?"
"Bridge building," Jaden answered quietly. "At least, I wanted to. Before everything went wrong."
"You know the difference between a bridge and drugs?" Albert asked. "A bridge connects people. Drugs tear them apart."
Jaden nodded, eyes downcast.
"Professor," I said, "Jaden needs help. Not just with drugs, but with his education. He's lost two years, but he can catch up. And you need a purpose. What do you say to becoming his mentor?"
Albert looked at the kid for a long time, then at me.
"I don't remember the last time I thought clearly for more than an hour sober."
"What if you tried? For him. For yourself."
The old man rose heavily, leaning on a cane. The dog stood too, gazing loyally at its master.
"Where would I get money to live? How could I help him with school? I have nothing."
I handed him a card with just a name and phone number.
"Call tomorrow morning. Say Professor Stein is calling on Michael's behalf. They'll help with a job and housing. And Jaden—with rehab and readmission to university."
"Who are you?" Albert asked, studying the card.
"Someone who believes everyone deserves a second chance."
I left them together—an old professor and a young addict who could save each other if they found the strength to try. Jaden handed Albert the gun, and the old man wordlessly tossed it into a dumpster.
The rain intensified. I walked the empty streets, reflecting on what had happened. Another soul pulled back from the abyss. Another life given a chance. But something gnawed at me, a premonition that today wasn't over.
I was right.
Sirens wailed somewhere in West Hollywood. I felt the familiar chill of death, mixed with something else. Something wrong. Inhuman.
Following my intuition, I reached the scene in ten minutes. Police tape cordoned off an entire block around the upscale "Sunset Gardens" complex. Ambulances, forensics, detectives—all with grim faces.
I approached an officer at the tape.
"What happened?"
"Murder," he said curtly. "Gruesome. Best not to get involved, citizen."
"I'm a witness," I lied. "Saw a suspicious guy in the area an hour ago."
The officer looked at me more closely.
"Then you need Detective Decker. Over there, in the blue jacket."
I followed his gaze and saw her.
Chloe Decker stood at the building's entrance, talking to a forensic tech. A slim blonde in her thirties, in jeans and a leather jacket. Strong jaw, attentive eyes, confident movements. An ordinary LAPD detective, one of hundreds.
And yet—not ordinary at all.
As I approached, something inside me shifted. As if someone had forcibly adjusted reality's settings. The world became… sharper. Brighter. More real. I felt as if, for the first time in millions of years, I was truly awake. My eyes opened.
"Detective Decker?" I addressed her. "I'm a witness. Officer Garcia said to talk to you."
She turned, and our eyes met. For a moment, I forgot why I was there, forgot the murder, forgot all my problems. Her gaze held a strange depth, as if she saw straight through me, to my core. Who was she?
"Chloe Decker, LAPD." She extended a hand. "Your name?"
"Michael. Michael…" Shaking her hand, I faltered, for the first time in ages unsure what surname to give. "Mickelson."
"Mr. Mickelson." Releasing my hand, she pulled out a notepad. "What exactly did you see?"
"I was passing by around nine p.m. Noticed a strange man at the building's service entrance. Seemed suspicious."
"Describe him."
I started inventing details, but suddenly realized I didn't need to. Knowledge came unbidden when the situation demanded it. A real image surfaced in my mind—not fabricated. A tall man in a dark coat, unnaturally pale skin, who had indeed been here tonight.
"Tall, about six-three. Thin. Dark, expensive coat. Very pale, almost white. And…" I paused. "He had strange eyes. Like no pupils."
Chloe's head snapped up from her notepad.
"No pupils? What do you mean?"
"Hard to explain. Just… empty. Dead."
"Mr. Mickelson," she stepped closer, "you need to see something. But fair warning—it's not for the faint of heart."
We went up to the seventh floor. Forensics techs bustled through the hallway, photographing every inch. At apartment 7-B stood a detective—a stocky man in his forties with a weary face.
"Dan, this is a witness," Chloe said. "Michael Mickelson. Saw a suspicious person near the building."
Dan nodded.
"Detective Dan Espinoza, Chloe's partner. Ready to go in?"
I nodded, though I already sensed and knew what awaited inside.
The apartment was expensive, tastefully furnished. Panoramic windows, designer furniture, paintings on the walls. And in the midst of all this luxury—what had once been a person.
Victor Montes, thirty-eight, successful lawyer. Lay in the middle of the living room in a pool of blood. But it wasn't the blood that mattered. It was what had been done to him.
The body was completely drained, the skin waxy. On his chest, a strange symbol was carved—something between a pentagram and an ancient runic mark. And the eyes…
The eyes were burned out from within, leaving only empty sockets.
"Lord God," I whispered, and it wasn't blasphemy but a prayer.
"You recognize the symbol?" Chloe asked, watching my reaction closely.
I did. It was a demon's mark. Very old and very powerful. But I couldn't tell an LAPD detective that.
"No, I don't. But… this is a ritual killing, isn't it?"
"Looks like it." Dan approached the window. "Victor Montes. Real estate lawyer. Lived alone, no family. Neighbors heard nothing."
"Motive?"
"Unclear so far." Chloe went to a table strewn with documents. "Cases seem routine. Buying, selling, leasing. Nothing criminal."
I looked over her shoulder at the papers, inadvertently inhaling the scent of her hair—something floral, light. And again, that strange feeling, as if near her I became more human.
"Stop," I said, pointing to one contract. "Look at the date."
Chloe picked up the paper.
"Purchase agreement for an old mansion on Mulholland Drive. Closed three days ago." She looked up at me. "And?"
"Now look at the buyer."
She read aloud:
"'Empire Investments, Inc.' Doesn't ring a bell."
But it did for me. Empire Investments was a shell company demons used to buy property in the human world. The Mulholland Drive mansion—an old place of power where dark rituals had once been performed.
"Detective Decker," I said carefully, "what if this isn't random? What if the lawyer learned something he wasn't supposed to?"
"Like what?"
"Like who's really behind Empire Investments."
Chloe and Dan exchanged glances.
"That's an interesting theory," she agreed. "We'll check the company."
"I can help," I offered. "I have connections in business circles."
"Mr. Mickelson," Dan put a hand on my shoulder, "we appreciate the offer, but this is a police investigation."
"I understand. It's just…" I looked at Victor Montes's body. "This symbol, the method. It feels familiar. I might remember something useful."
"How are ritual murders familiar to you?" Chloe asked, a note of wariness in her voice.
"I'm into religious history. Read about similar cases in the past."
It was true. Though not the whole truth.
"Alright," she said finally. "Leave your contact info. If you remember anything, call."
We went downstairs. At the building's entrance, Chloe stopped, staring at the rainy street.
"Weird murder," she muttered. "Ten years on the force, I've never seen anything like it."
"Detective, can I ask something?"
"Sure."
"Do you believe in the supernatural?"
Chloe smiled—for the first time all evening.
"Mr. Mickelson, I'm an LAPD detective. I believe in evidence, testimony, and logic. You?"
"Used to." I looked at her face, lit by streetlights. "But lately, I'm starting to think there's far more mystery in the world than we're willing to admit."
"Well, if this mystery left fingerprints, DNA, or surveillance footage, I'll crack it." She handed me her card. "Thanks for the help. And really, call if you remember anything."
I took the card, and our fingers brushed for a moment. An electric jolt ran through my skin—not metaphorical, but real. Chloe felt it too, judging by her startled look.
"Goodbye, Mr. Mickelson."
"Goodbye, Detective Decker."
I watched her get in her car and drive off. The rain kept pouring, washing away the city's daily dust and grime. The water tried to touch me but couldn't. It pattered against an invisible barrier around my head, unable to wash away the sensation that meeting Chloe Decker was something significant.
Near her, I felt human. Truly, vividly human—with all its weaknesses and fears, but also all its possibilities.
What that meant for me, I didn't yet understand. But I needed to find out.
***