“Why is Michello considered so dangerous?” Arthur asked, leaning back against the cold stone wall of the hideout. “Besides the fact that he was carrying a chainsaw, he actually seemed… kind of nice.”

Hugo let out a sharp, humorless laugh, exhaling smoke from his cigarette. “Nice? That man’s the definition of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You think he’s dangerous because of the chainsaw? Kid, sit down. You need to hear this.”

“Oooh, boss,” Roxanne piped up, her freckled face lighting with interest as she set her manga aside. “Story time! This should be good.”

Hugo raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you didn’t care about my stories?”

Roxanne shrugged, leaning forward with a grin. “That’s before I thought they were super fake. Now that I know they’re real? You bet I’m interested.”

Hugo rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before gesturing for Arthur to sit. As the group settled, he took a slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl around him before speaking.

“I first met that psycho six years ago,” Hugo began, his voice low and steady. “Back then, he’d only recently climbed to the top of A.E.G.I.S’s high-priority kill list. The ‘young priest,’ as people called him, had a reputation even then. He’d just started ‘vacationing’ in the U.S.—a trip that left a trail of blood and chaos in its wake. And yet…” Hugo’s brow furrowed, his tone tinged with bitter amusement. “He spent his days doing the most mundane things: ghost watching, handing out money to anyone struggling, chatting with kids on the street. Like he was some kind of saint.”

Arthur frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a high-priority threat.”

“Yeah, well, looks are deceiving,” Hugo snapped, his tone sharp. He exhaled slowly, composing himself. “One night, I was running a mission to track him down. He wasn’t exactly hiding—he never does. When I found him, he was strolling through an alleyway, watching the Fallen hunt their prey like it was some kind of art exhibit.”

Even then, Hugo looked older than his years. His hair, prematurely streaked with gray, framed a face etched with exhaustion. The dark bags under his eyes spoke of countless sleepless nights and a job that demanded far too much. His A.E.G.I.S uniform was sharp and professional, but his weary expression betrayed the toll his work had taken.

The alley was a grotesque scene of carnage. Blood pooled around mangled bodies, the metallic scent thick in the air. There were at least twelve corpses, each hacked apart with terrifying precision. Limbs were scattered like broken dolls, and the walls were splattered with crimson streaks. It was as though the alley itself had been painted in violence.

Standing in the center of the chaos was Michello. His black robes were immaculate, untouched by the carnage surrounding him. He turned slowly as Hugo approached, the faint hum of the chainsaw at his side the only sound in the otherwise deathly silence.

“Oh, another agent,” Michello said, his voice calm and disinterested, as though greeting an uninvited guest at a dinner party. He tilted his head, his pink eye gleaming with faint amusement. “I grow bored with you dogs. Leave now, and I’ll spare you.”

Hugo tightened his grip on his weapon, his jaw set. “You’ve already killed multiple of my comrades. I can’t let you walk away from this.”

Michello’s gaze swept the alley, his grin widening slightly as he gestured to the carnage. “Ah, yes. Your comrades. Such dedicated souls. Tell me, dog, do you mourn them? Or are they just another part of this endless machine you serve?”

Hugo ignored the taunt, his eyes darting to the bodies. Each one bore deep, jagged cuts—evidence of Michello’s chainsaw. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to stay composed. “Enough games, Michello. Why did you do this?”

Michello chuckled softly, stepping over a severed arm as he began to approach Hugo. “The Fallen,” he said, almost wistfully, “such poor creatures, don’t you agree?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hugo growled, his patience fraying.

Michello stopped a few paces away, his pink eye-locking onto Hugo’s. “You can’t see them, can you?” he said, his tone tinged with pity. “The dead who linger. Their broken souls, tethered to this realm by their suffering. It’s tragic, really.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But then again, I suppose heretic dogs like you wouldn’t understand.”

Hugo’s grip on his weapon tightened. “Enough of your cryptic nonsense. You’re a monster, Michello. Nothing more.”

Michello’s grin turned sharp, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “And what are you, Hugo? A savior? A hero? Tell me, do you truly believe you’re making a difference in this world?”

Hugo hesitated, the question cutting deeper than he expected. “No,” he admitted finally, his voice bitter. “I kill one monster, but there are always twelve more. Even if I kill you, there’s still the Dove, the Butcher, and a hundred others like you. It’s all a waste of time.”

Michello’s laughter echoed through the blood-soaked alley, rich and unrestrained, as though the surrounding carnage was the punchline to some dark cosmic joke. “Oh, Hugo,” he said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye with theatrical flair. “At least you’re honest. That’s why I like you.” He stepped closer, his boots squelching in the crimson puddles, his grin widening into something both charismatic and chilling. “But tell me this: if it’s all meaningless, why are you still fighting?”

Hugo stared at him, his jaw clenched tight. He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His silence was a fortress, but Michello’s words chipped away at it with unsettling precision.

Michello tilted his head, his pink eye glinting with dangerous amusement. “Ah, the silence of a man wrestling with his own existence. How poetic.” He raised his hand, his fingers snapping with a sharp click. “Let me show you the future—a world of pure horror.”

Before Hugo could react, the world around him warped. His vision blurred, the dim alley dissolving into a twisted, apocalyptic nightmare.

The sky above him bled crimson, dark clouds swirling ominously as blood rain fell in relentless torrents. The moon hung low, its unblinking eye a glaring, malevolent presence that seemed to bore into his soul. Black feathers drifted through the air like a macabre snowstorm, dissolving into ash upon contact with the ground. The streets writhed with movement as monstrous abominations prowled the desolate landscape. Grotesque creatures with mismatched limbs, gaping maws, and countless, writhing tentacles filled the streets. Their guttural howls echoed like a symphony of despair.

Hugo’s stomach churned violently as the stench of decay and blood overwhelmed him. The sight—the sheer wrongness—of the scene was too much. He doubled over, retching, his body convulsing as his mind struggled to process the nightmare unfolding before him.

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And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the horrifying vision vanished. The alley returned, silent save for Hugo’s ragged breathing and the faint hum of Michello’s chainsaw. Hugo staggered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his legs trembling beneath him.

Michello watched him with an almost pitying expression, his voice softer now, though no less unsettling. “It’s truly horrible, isn’t it?” he said, spreading his arms as though embracing the memory of the vision. “I see it every night—a constant reminder of the fate awaiting those who refuse my Lady’s embrace.” His smile returned, sharp and dangerous. “I pity you, truly. But there is still hope for even a heretic dog like you. Pray to her, Hugo. Seek her guidance before it’s too late.”

With that, Michello turned on his heel, his black robes billowing as he walked away, leaving Hugo standing amidst the carnage. His chainsaw’s faint hum grew quieter until it was swallowed by the night.

“At the time,” Hugo said, his voice heavy with the weight of memory, “I didn’t know what he showed me was real. I assumed it was just another one of his illusions. A trick to mess with my head.”

Arthur leaned forward, his brows furrowed. “Do you think we can trust him? To kill the angels, I mean?”

Hugo let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Trust? No. But could he do it? Absolutely. Michello is dangerous because he’s brilliant and relentless. I used to talk to the bastard who stole my body—my own personal angelic tormentor. He mentioned Michello once. Called him ‘God’s favorite child who chose the path of a devil.’ That’s how the angels refer to him. Even they fear him.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Hugo’s words settling over them like a heavy fog.

Roxanne let out a low whistle. “What a scary man. But… he might be our best shot, right? I mean, if he’s that dangerous, maybe we should let him help.”

Arthur nodded slowly, determination flashing in his eyes. “If I see him again, I’ll give him more details. We don’t have many options, and if Michello’s willing to go after the angels, then we should let him.”

Hugo sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “Just be careful, Arthur. You might think you’re using Michello, but don’t forget—he’s using you, too. And with someone like him, you’re always playing by his rules.”

As nightfall approached, the oppressive tension of the coming darkness hung in the air, but the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Eliza and Emelia stepped into the hideout, their faces drawn with exhaustion.

“Oh, hello, everyone,” Eliza greeted, her voice hollow, lacking its usual sharp edge. She dropped her bag onto a nearby chair, her movements mechanical. “How’s it going?”

Hugo didn’t miss a beat, his tone blunt and matter-of-fact. “Arthur became friends with the government’s most wanted criminal.”

Both women froze mid-step, their eyes widening in unison. “What?!” they exclaimed in disbelief.

Eliza blinked, still processing, while Emelia looked between Arthur and Hugo, her face a mix of concern and confusion. “Arthur, is he serious?” Emelia asked hesitantly.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, his expression sheepish. “Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. He said he’d help us with the angels.”

Eliza raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “And you thought that was a good idea?”

Hugo cut in before Arthur could respond. “Anyway,” he said, his voice turning more practical, “I’ve had this place reinforced. The Fallen can’t naturally break objects, so we’re safe in here. I promise.”

Noticing their still-tense expressions, Hugo stood, gripping his metal bat. Without warning, he swung it at their heads. The bat passed harmlessly through, as expected, but the abrupt action drew simultaneous yelps from both women.

“What the hell, Hugo?!” Eliza shouted, grabbing him by the collar with an exasperated glare. “It can’t even hurt us! What was that for?”

Hugo chuckled, unfazed by her outburst. “For that reaction,” he said, smirking. He glanced at Emelia. “What about you? Feel like taking a swing at me?”

Emelia tilted her head, her voice calm but mischievous. “Arthur, could you kick him in the shins for me, please?”

“Why me?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can only hit one shin at a time,” Emelia replied sweetly before delivering a light kick to Hugo’s shin, grinning as she stepped back.

Hugo winced theatrically, rubbing his leg as though he could actually feel the impact. “You know what? I’m not cooking dinner tonight.”

“Please, boss!” Roxanne chimed in, her voice taking on a pleading tone as she clasped her hands together and attempted a pair of wide, puppy-dog eyes. “It’s been ages since you’ve cooked for us.”

Hugo shot her a flat look. “I cooked yesterday. You’re just greedy.”

Roxanne shrugged innocently, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no evidence—I made sure of that.”

Hugo groaned, muttering under his breath. “Fine, whatever. But you’re helping this time.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the kitchen.

“Wait, no!” Roxanne protested, her mock horror betrayed by the grin she tried to hide.

The rest of the group chuckled as Hugo and Roxanne disappeared into the kitchen, their banter continuing in the background.

“I swear,” Hugo’s voice called out, followed by the sound of a chopping board hitting the counter, “you’d have cut your fingers off ages ago if you weren’t already a ghost.”

“I’m better at eating than cooking,” Roxanne quipped. “It’s a skill.”

Eliza leaned against the table, her lips twitching into a faint smile as she glanced at Emelia. “You’d think they were siblings the way they go at it.”

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Roxanne stood over a pile of vegetables, holding a knife with an awkward grip. Hugo sighed, stepping behind her and gently taking her hand. “Here, let me help,” he said, guiding her fingers to hold the knife and carefully chop the ingredients properly.

“T-thanks,” Roxanne mumbled, her cheeks flushing slightly as she focused on the task.

Hugo smirked, his usual gruffness softening just a touch. “Don’t mention it. Just try not to turn dinner into a disaster.”

After some time, Hugo emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large steaming dish of shrimp Alfredo. The creamy sauce glistened under the dim light, the aroma of garlic, herbs, and perfectly sautéed shrimp filling the room and drawing everyone’s attention. Behind him, Roxanne trailed with plates and utensils in hand, her usual exuberance noticeably dimmed. She looked utterly spent, her shoulders slumped and her expression somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation.

“Dinner’s ready,” Hugo announced, setting the dish on the table with a flourish. His tone was casual, but there was a hint of pride in his voice as he glanced at the perfectly cooked meal.

Eliza sniffed the air, her mood lifting slightly. “Well, at least you didn’t burn the sauce this time,” she teased, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Roxanne dropped into a chair with an exaggerated sigh, slumping over the table like a defeated warrior. “You say that, but you have no idea the hell I went through. I’ve seen things,” she groaned dramatically, waving a hand as though fending off an invisible foe.

“Things like garlic cloves and measuring cups?” Hugo quipped, raising an eyebrow as he handed out plates.

Roxanne shot him a mock glare. “You’re lucky this turned out edible, or you’d be eating it alone.”

Emelia giggled softly, reaching for a plate. “It smells amazing. Thank you both.”

As everyone began to serve themselves, Arthur glanced at Roxanne, who was still feigning an air of devastation. “You alright there, chef?” he asked, a playful smirk on his face.

Roxanne sat up just enough to grab her fork, her eyes narrowing. “I’ll survive. Barely.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Hugo muttered, though there was a faint, rare smile on his face as he took his seat.

The group dug into the meal, the atmosphere growing lighter with each bite. The warm, rich flavors of the Alfredo were a temporary escape, a small comfort in their otherwise chaotic reality. For a while, the horrors of the outside world faded, replaced by laughter and the sound of clinking utensils.

As the last remnants of dinner disappeared, Roxanne leaned back in her chair, her energy slowly returning. “Okay, I admit it,” she said with a grin. “That was worth the suffering.”

Hugo rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re welcome.”