December 22nd. The chill of winter hung in the air as Michello strolled through the quiet streets, the darkness wrapped around him like a cloak. The moon hung high above, its light pale and cold, illuminating the faint wisps of his breath in the frigid night. Around him, the world seemed almost serene, yet the distant cries of the Fallen pierced the silence like the wails of forgotten souls. Their movements were erratic, their usual hunger now tinged with unfamiliar, feral anger.

“Ah, how delightful,” Michello murmured, his voice soft yet carrying an edge of excitement. His pink eye glinted in the dim moonlight as he tilted his head, observing a particularly grotesque Fallen as it tore through an unseen specter. “It seems tomorrow will be the Blood Moon.” His lips curved into a smile, sharp and dangerous. “I should visit my dear friend. We must savor the night together.”

His steps quickened, a bounce in his stride, as though the thought of the chaos filled him with glee. From the shadows, figures began to emerge, one by one, until a small group surrounded him. They were clad in flowing white cloaks, their faces hidden behind intricate fox masks. Each mask was painted with delicate crimson markings, a stark contrast to the purity of their robes. Around their necks, they bore the same holy emblem Michello wore—a gleaming pendant symbolizing their shared faith.

“The night is young, my dear friends,” Michello announced, spinning on his heel to face them, his arms outstretched in a theatrical gesture. His voice carried a melodic lilt, as though he were delivering a sermon. “Tomorrow, the heavens shall gift us an eternal crimson glow—a blessing from our Lady! Praise be to our heavenly goddess, may the Lady’s grace bathe us all!”

He laughed then, a sound rich with mirth and madness, before breaking into an impromptu dance in the middle of the deserted street. His robes swirled around him as he spun, his chainsaw gleaming ominously at his side. The masked figures watched in silence, their heads tilted slightly, their reverence for their “Cardinal” evident in their stillness.

One of the white-robed figures stepped forward, their voice muffled by the mask but laced with deference. “Cardinal, what would you have us do tomorrow night? We are not blessed as you are to witness the world of the dead.”

Michello stopped mid-spin, his smile widening as he turned to face the speaker. “Ah, yes. You poor, unseeing lambs,” he said, his tone dripping with mock pity. “Fear not! I have the perfect task for you.” He stepped closer, his grin sharpening into something predatory. “Go forth. Burn as many A.E.G.I.S facilities as you can. Kill their agents. All of them. Leave no one alive.”

The group shifted slightly, murmurs of agreement rippling through them like a low chant.

“They’ll be distracted by the unexpected Blood Moon,” Michello continued, his tone gleeful. “It will be chaos—glorious chaos! And while they flounder in the dark, you, my dear flock, shall deliver the Lady’s will.”

Another figure, their voice hesitant, stepped forward. “Cardinal, should we seek permission from the Shrine Maiden first? Such an act may—”

Michello’s laughter cut them off, loud and unrestrained. “Permission? From her?” He waved a dismissive hand, his grin never faltering. “She told me I could do whatever I want as long as I don’t die.” He tilted his head back, his eye gleaming with unrestrained joy. “And oh, how I intend to live tomorrow night! I’ve never had the pleasure of enjoying the Night Parade in the U.S. before. What an exciting first!”

He stretched his arms wide, his orange hair catching the moonlight as he basked in his vision of destruction. The masked figures knelt in unison, bowing their heads as they chanted softly, their voices blending into a haunting hymn that filled the still night air. Michello stood among them, his grin now almost serene as he prepared for the chaos to come.

“Besides,” Michello said with a dramatic pout, crossing his arms like a child denied a favorite treat, “those heretics deserve it. A few months ago, they dared to demote me to second place on their priority kill list! Me! The nerve! I held that number one spot since I was sixteen, a whole ten years as the highest human on that list. This is truly unacceptable.” He stomped his foot lightly, his pink eye gleaming with exaggerated indignation.

“Yes, sir, of course,” one of the robed figures said, their voice uncertain as they glanced at each other.

Michello waved them off, sighing theatrically. “Ah, no matter. I shall reclaim my rightful place soon enough.” With a flourish, he walked to a nearby sewer grate, pried it open, and hopped inside. The clang of the cover echoed as he slid it shut behind him. The priests exchanged uneasy glances but made no move to follow, deciding—wisely—to stay above ground.

Michello navigated the sewer tunnels with practiced ease, his boots splashing through the shallow muck. The darkness didn’t bother him; he seemed to thrive in it, humming a cheerful tune as he made his way deeper. Soon, he reached a rusted metal door. Without hesitation, he raised a foot and kicked it open with a resounding crash.

Inside, the group looked up in alarm, their moment of peace shattered. They had been gathered around the small table, enjoying plates of Hugo’s butter chicken—a dish he had made with Roxanne’s clumsy help. The warm aroma of spices and cream still lingered in the air, but the cheerful atmosphere evaporated the moment Michello appeared.

“Oh, Hugo!” Michello exclaimed, his tone dripping with mock delight as he sauntered in. “What a surprise! What are you doing here? Didn’t I stab you in the leg last week? Don’t tell me you’ve been replaced by an angel all this time!” He feigned shock, his hand flying to his chest in mock horror. “How scandalous!”

Hugo’s expression remained a mixture of confusion and exasperation. “Yeah… why the hell are you here?” he asked flatly, setting his fork down.

Michello clapped his hands together, his grin widening. “I bring good news, my dear friends! Tomorrow is the Night Parade!” His voice rose with excitement, his energy infectious despite the tension in the room.

“Wait, really?!” Roxanne exclaimed, her face lighting up as she all but leaped out of her chair. “It’s been so long since the last one—I can’t wait!”

“Oh, really?” Hugo said, arching an eyebrow but allowing a small smile to tug at his lips. “That’s… good to hear.”

Across the table, Arthur, Emelia, and Eliza exchanged confused glances before speaking in unison. “What’s the Night Parade?”

Michello gasped theatrically, spinning toward them with wide, sparkling eyes. “You don’t know? Oh, you poor, ignorant lambs! Allow me to enlighten you.” He raised his arms as if delivering a sermon. “On the night of the Blood Moon, the mortal realm is bathed in chaos as the supernatural grows exponentially more dangerous. The Fallen? They revert to their uncorrupted forms. For the living, it’s a night of terror. But for the dead…” He paused, his grin stretching wider. “It’s a night of joy! A grand festival! A celebration where all the dead gather to revel in the fleeting peace. Tomorrow, my dear friends, shall be a night to remember.”

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Arthur, Emelia, and Eliza shared a mix of awe and apprehension as they processed Michello’s words.

Michello clapped his hands again, his chainsaw swaying slightly at his side as he spun in a small circle. “Oh, how I adore the Night Parade! The laughter, the dancing, the sheer madness of it all! I do hope you’ll join in the festivities. After all, it’s not every day the dead are given such a gift.” He shot them a dazzling smile, his pink eye glinting with mischief.

“Well,” Hugo muttered, picking up his fork again, “this should be… interesting.”

“Wait, so it’ll be safe to go up to the surface?” Eliza asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement, a rare glimmer of the old her shining through.

“Yes, indeed,” Michello replied, clasping his hands as if delivering a sermon. “No dangerous creatures to harm you. The Fallen will revert to who they once were, shedding their monstrous forms for the night. And, as is tradition, they’ll hold a grand festival to honor their god.” His tone was laced with theatrical reverence.

“There’s even all kinds of delicious food and drinks…” Roxanne chimed in, her smile turning mischievous. “Lots of drinks.”

“No drinking for you, you damn alcoholic,” Hugo grumbled, pointing his fork at her like a disapproving parent.

Roxanne crossed her arms, feigning indignation. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a connoisseur. There’s a difference.”

“Hugo, we’re going, right?” Arthur asked, glancing at him with a mixture of curiosity and hope.

“Of course we’re going,” Hugo replied, leaning back in his chair with a rare smile. “It’s a special night, one that doesn’t come around often. Roughly once every six months. We’d be fools not to enjoy it.”

“Arthur, let’s go together! I can’t wait!” Emelia said, wrapping her arms around Arthur in a quick, enthusiastic hug.

“Scary guy, care to join us for dinner?” she asked, turning to Michello with an innocent smile.

Michello chuckled, brushing a stray strand of orange hair from his face. “Oh, as much as I’d love to, I have a few people to kill. My schedule is quite full, you see.” He adjusted his chainsaw at his side, giving them a cheerful wave. “So, please excuse me. I’ll be leaving now.”

As he strolled toward the door, humming a tune that sounded far too pleasant for someone who’d just announced murder on his agenda, Roxanne leaned toward Hugo. “Should we have let him leave?” she asked, her voice low but tinged with concern.

Hugo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Trust me, nothing stops that psychopath. If he wants to go, there’s no point in trying to stop him.”

The door clanged shut behind Michello, leaving the group in a momentary silence.

“Well,” Eliza said, breaking the quiet, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Tomorrow’s going to be fun.”

“I’ll go ahead and explain everything,” Hugo said, gesturing for them to settle back at the dining table. “Take a seat and finish your dinner.”

The group obediently resumed their meal, the faint clink of utensils against plates filling the room as Hugo began to speak. His tone was measured but carried the weight of someone who had seen far more than he cared to admit.

“The entire world will turn into a large-scale festival tomorrow,” he started. “The Fallen were once angels, but unlike the Ten Commandments, they chose not to steal human bodies. That choice came at a cost. Every night, they lose all control and transform into the Fallen—mindless creatures consumed by the curse. The Night Parade is their only reprieve.”

Arthur paused, his fork hovering over his plate. “I’ve been wondering about the moon. At night, there’s always a giant eye staring down at us, and during a blood moon, the Fallen are free from their curse. What’s the connection?”

Hugo leaned back in his chair, his expression grim. “From what I’ve gathered, the moon is their god—tainted and twisted, but still revered by them. However, very few understand the full story. The angels are tight-lipped about it, they rarely speak of why they were cursed in the first place. I’m not sure if they even know why.”

Roxanne grinned, resting her chin on her hand. “If you let me drink, I’ll help you get some information,” she offered, her voice laced with playful mischief.

Hugo shot her a withering look. “On one condition, I’ll cut you off the moment you get too drunk.”

“Deal!” Roxanne said, her grin widening. “You won’t regret this.”

Eliza leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I’ll help with the investigation too. No way am I going to be stuck as a third wheel with the lovebirds all night.”

Hugo chuckled softly, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thank you. You two”—he pointed at Arthur and Emelia—“should take the night to enjoy yourselves. Talk about whatever you need to. The Night Parade is a rare opportunity.”

Arthur glanced at Emelia, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “S-sure, thanks.”

“I can’t wait!” Emelia exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “It’s going to be so much fun.”

As the group finished their dinner, the tension in the room began to lift, replaced by an air of cautious optimism. For the first time in a long while, the promise of a night without danger felt like a gift—one they intended to make the most of.

The next day, at precisely six o’clock, the group gathered in the nearby park, their breaths visible in the crisp winter air. Excitement buzzed between them as they eagerly awaited the Night Parade to begin. The seconds ticked by, each one charged with anticipation. Then, as always, at six minutes and six seconds past the hour, the world changed.

The sky above seemed to ripple and tear, revealing a celestial tapestry bathed in hues of deep crimson and gold. The blood-red moon dominated the heavens, glowing with a radiant beauty that rivaled the finest ruby. Its light bathed the world in an otherworldly glow, casting everything in shades of scarlet and amber.

From the sky, white feathers began to drift down, their edges shimmering faintly as if dusted with starlight. They were joined by colorful confetti that seemed to materialize from nowhere, swirling gently in the soft, magical breeze. Among them danced glowing fireflies, their tiny lights weaving through the air like living constellations.

Then, the streets came alive.

Astral floats, crafted from translucent, shimmering material, glided gracefully through the air and along the roads. Each one bore intricate designs, glowing softly as they illuminated the night. Some were adorned with angelic statues that seemed almost alive, while others carried elaborate depictions of celestial stories long forgotten by mortals. The floats radiated a quiet serenity, their beauty enough to bring tears to the eyes of those who watched.

Above, angels with luminous wings floated gracefully, their ethereal forms outlined in golden light. Some descended to set up carnival games, their movements precise and almost reverent. Others busied themselves at food stands, crafting meals that glowed faintly with divine energy. The scents of roasted meats, sweet confections, and spiced drinks filled the air, tantalizing and comforting. A few angels simply floated silently, their hands clasped in prayer, their expressions serene as they gazed at the moon, as though hoping their god could share in this fleeting moment of joy.

Scattered among the festivities were angels who knelt, their heads bowed, tears streaking their faces. They wept quietly, their sobs a mix of gratitude and sorrow. For them, this night was not just a reprieve—it was a painful reminder of what they had lost and what they might never regain. Yet, they smiled through their tears, savoring the temporary freedom from their curse.

The ghosts, too, were swept up in the emotion of the night. For some, it was their first Night Parade, and their awe was palpable. They marveled at the splendor of the event, their faces lighting with joy as they realized they could walk freely, without fear of the Fallen. Others, more seasoned, wasted no time and made a beeline for the food stands, eager to savor the legendary angelic cooking they had long anticipated. The mingling scents and laughter created a harmony that echoed through the streets.

For a single night, the veil between realms seemed to lift, and the boundary between joy and sorrow blurred. The parade wasn’t just a celebration—it was a moment of unity, a chance for both the cursed and the damned to bask in the light of something greater than themselves.

The Night Parade had begun.