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"No! You don't get to end this" Adam wheezed as he hauled himself upward, clawing at the jagged Hellstone that framed the crater Lucifer and that sunshine-crotchspawn had sent him crashing into. His breath came in broken spurts, raw heat pushing through his ribs. His mask-his actual mask and the one he wore inside-had shattered somewhere in the rubble.
"I'm fucking Adam! I'm the First Man! And you're just some fucking clown!" He ranted, too consumed by rage and millennium-old misery to hear the tiny pitter-patter of feet closing in behind him.
"I started everything on Earth! All of mankind came from these fucking-"
But across the battlefield, Lute-half feral, blood smeared, missing an arm, and still spitting curses at Vaggie-caught sight of Nifty darting toward Adam's unprotected back. Her entire body went still. Every alarm in her head screamed. She wrenched herself free of Vaggie, wings flaring unevenly as she sprinted toward Adam in a burst of golden light.
"All of you should be worshipping me! You ungrateful, disgusting, fucking-"
"SIR!"
A force slammed into Adam's back, shoving him forward so hard he stumbled, nearly face-first into the scorched ground.
"The fuck!?"
He caught himself just in time... and then two things happened.
First: He saw the look on Vaggie's face as she rejoined Charlie and the others: Shock, horror, and to Adam's disgust, on hers delight.
Second: The shrill cry behind him cut abruptly into a wet, choking gurgle.
Adam spun around, ready to tear into Lute for shoving him-and saw why she was the one making that sound.
Nifty's small frame clung to her like a parasite, stabbing again and again into Lute's chest, an angelic blade carved from stolen Exorcist steel jutting through her ribs. Her throat was slashed open cleanly, a fountain of golden ichor spraying across the air.
Everything stopped.
No sound.
No motion.
No Hellfire.
Just gold.
Gold pouring from her mouth.
Gold drenching her tattered cassock.
Gold dripping from the blade that killed her.
Adam vaporized Nifty on instinct—a burst of Holy Light so bright it left afterimages seared into the earth—and he was already screaming before he hit his knees beside Lute.
"LUTE!"
He practically tore off his battle robe and pressed it hard to her chest, his fingers shaking violently as he tried to seal wounds that would not seal, pushing against her skin as if pressure alone could cheat death.
“Jesus—fuck—WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR ARM!?” he choked, only now registering the absence — the clean, horrifying sever where her entire left arm should’ve been.
Her golden eyes locked onto his. The terror inside them softened. Warmed. The same warmth he had seen only once before— Eve. Eden. A life before death.
“Don’t you fucking die on me,” he snarled, his voice splintering. “You hear me? Don’t you fucking die, bitch—” Her body shivered violently under his hands. Then her remaining hand rose — slow, trembling — pressing weakly against his chest. Pushing him back. Not to reject him. To tell him something.
She pulled her hand away and made a sign:
Pinky, pointer, and thumb extended.
Their sign.
The one she’d flashed at him during training for centuries — I’ve got your back. You’re not alone. The only gesture that ever cut through his bullshit.
Adam froze. He choked. His eyes went wide with recognition.
“No. No, no, no—LUTE, FUCK, NO—” Her eyes shimmered as she gave a small and soft smile. Then the light in them flickered—
—and went out.
“LUTE!” Adam shook her violently, slapping her cheeks. “LUTE! PLEASE!”
His vision blurred. His voice cracked — broke — shattered into the same small, helpless whimper he’d made millennia ago over Abel’s body.
“Please don’t leave me too . . .” The world remained silent. Her body grew still beneath him, warm but lifeless. Adam folded over her, hugging her corpse with both arms, golden ichor streaming down his face, dripping from his nose and lips. He stayed like that, shaking, until the crunch of stone behind him announced another presence.
He didn’t move. He only reached up and gently closed Lute’s eyes, giving her the peace he could not claim for himself.
Footsteps.
A shadow.
A presence like cold silk and poison sweetness settled behind him.
Tap on his shoulder.
Ignored.
Another tap.
Still nothing.
Then hands — cool, elegant, serpent-strong — seized him and spun him around. Lucifer. His smile was razor-thin, his eyes glimmering like polished obsidian catching firelight.
“Take your little dolls and GO HOME!” he roared, flame licking the edges of his words— then, with a mocking little bow: “Please.”
Adam’s hatred surged white-hot. The urge to summon his Guitaxe and cleave Lucifer’s skull in two nearly tore through his restraint. He wanted to rip the guts from the Devil’s crotchspawn, to burn the Pride Ring to cinders, to tear the screaming souls from every sinner and paint Hell in righteous obliteration.
But even he wasn’t stupid enough to fight now.
His Exorcists were dying.
He had barely survived Lucifer alone.
He couldn’t win.
Jaw clenched, eyes blazing, Adam scooped up Lute’s limp body and screamed the order for retreat.
He didn’t remember flying. He didn’t remember bursting through Heaven’s gate. He didn’t remember landing. All he remembered was the weight in his arms.
There was nothing The Healer could do. No matter how Adam begged— threatened— offered to Fall on the spot— Raphael only shook his head.
“I cannot return the dead to life.” Adam stormed out of the Azariah Center, breathing unevenly, vision tunneling as every gilded surface of Heaven mocked him with its perfection.
He hated the bright cloudless sky.
He hated the shimmering gold streets.
He hated every smiling Winner and every laughing angel.
He hated himself most of all.
He punched the code to his office floor, stumbling into the lift, tearing off the demonic helmet and swinging it by a horn, rocking on unsteady feet.
His breath came too fast.
Then too slow.
Then too fast again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He hit the helmet lightly against the wall. Breathing steadied. Focus sharpened.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He wasn’t a failure. He was Adam. The First Man. The Beast of Heaven. The—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He failed Lilith.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He failed Eve.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He failed Sera.
TAPTAPTAP
He failed Lute— not once— but twice.
SMASH!
The elevator wall trembled under the force of the blow, fragments of the mask and wall skittering across the floor like startled insects. Adam stood there panting, the broken remains of the demon mask hanging loosely from his hand . . . no, slipping from it . . . and the moment it hit the floor with a dull clatter he felt something inside himself drop with it. Something heavy. Something old. His vision blurred. His breath got stuck halfway in his chest in a way that made it feel like his ribs were trying to close around his lungs. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, dragging it down his face.
‘Okay . . . okay, just breathe. Just . . . slow it down. Don’t pass out in the goddamn elevator, Adam. Not now, not . . .’ But the shakiness wouldn’t stop. It moved through his arms, his hands, even his wings which twitched uncontrollably behind him, feathers dropping in soft, defeated little flurries at his feet.
The elevator chimed.
Too cheerful.
Too bright.
He hated it.
He forced himself forward . . . barely managing not to stumble . . . and practically fell into the hallway. The world wobbled around the edges; the hallway seemed impossibly long, gold too reflective, air too thin. He stumbled toward his office, kicked the door open, and collapsed inside. Getting to his feet, he summoned his Guitaxe and tore into the room, screaming until his voice broke. The projector split in two under the first blow, sparks scattering across the floor. Records shattered like brittle bones beneath his fists. He ripped plaques, frames, shelves from the walls and hurled them in every direction. And still, none of it was enough. None of it brought her back. None of it stopped the truth: He was alone again.
"Lute . . ." Her name surfaced without permission as he collapsed against one of the walls and slumped against it.
"Lute, I’m so . . . fuck . . . why . . . why couldn’t it have been me? She should’ve lived. She should’ve . . . she . . ."
His eyes closed tight, throat burning as he pressed a shaking hand over his face. His heart hammered. His breath hitched.
“Well, this is pathetic.”
Adam’s breath froze in his chest.
His eyes snapped open, too wide, and for a moment he didn’t move, afraid that any motion would confirm he’d actually heard it. A pair of boots clicked lightly across the floor. Slow. Amused. Familiar.
“Oh my God, Adam,” the voice went on, dripping with lazy disbelief. “You break a few things and suddenly it’s the end of the world?”
He turned his head.
Lute was standing near his desk . . . her stance so unmistakably hers that his stomach lurched.
She had one hand on her hip, the other loosely flexing as though she were deciding whether to clap or smack him. Her wings flickered faintly behind her, light stuttering at the edges like a bad hologram. Adam blinked rapidly. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his temples.
“No,” he whispered, weak, hoarse. “No, you’re not . . . you’re not here. You can’t be here . . .”
“Hm.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with a pitying little smirk. “Yeah, you look like shit. Worse than usual.”
His breath stuttered, catching painfully in his throat. He shook his head again, frantic. “You’re dead,” he said, voice cracking embarrassingly. “You’re . . . this isn’t real, this isn’t . . .”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Lute rolled her eyes and began casually circling him, boots clicking softly against the floor. “Because you’re just so emotionally stable right now.”
Adam’s hands shook violently in his lap. He pressed one to his chest as if that would steady the frantic, uneven hammering of his heart.
“I’m hallucinating,” he whispered. “I’m . . . I’m losing it. I’m just . . .”
Lute stopped in front of him, crouched down enough to meet his eyes, her grin sharpening.
“Wow,” she said flatly.
A beat passed.
“Someone’s menstruating.”
Adam flinched so hard he nearly toppled sideways, wings jerking behind him in a clumsy, involuntary spasm. Heat flooded his face; humiliation, grief, shock all crashing together in his chest until he couldn’t tell them apart. His eyes burned. His throat tightened painfully.
“Lute . . .” he breathed, voice breaking like a snapped string. “Please . . . don’t . . .”
Her grin softened, in that awful, taunting way only she could manage: half mean, half fond, like she was watching a puppy slam into a glass door.
“There he is,” she murmured. “My favorite disaster.”