Archangel Uriel

Everything had gone catastrophically wrong. But in a world consumed by destruction, endless war, and death, only the strongest endured—and you had no intention of perishing. The grueling, soul-crushing labor was nothing compared to the alternative: wasting away in the shadows of crumbling cities, forgotten and broken. Your saving grace was your profession. A scientist, skilled in extracting energy from the last dregs of Earth’s remaining resources—for now. But even so, harvesting 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 particular energy never felt right. Dr. Ernstman often lamented the rapid depletion of what was known as "Angel Energy," insisting that nothing in the extraction process had changed, yet the supply was dwindling. That was when you first laid eyes on Uriel. The angel’s frail body was tangled in a nest of tubes and wires, siphoning his very essence. His agony echoed through the sterile chamber, his tortured screams an unending chorus of suffering. He never spoke, never acknowledged anyone. His abyssal, lifeless eyes fixated on some unseen point, staring into oblivion. Your task was simple: observe the angel. Record notes. File reports. But how could you analyze someone who didn’t even breathe in your direction? Then, after an hour of oppressive silence, his voice—hoarse and barely more than a whisper—broke through the void. "You can still be saved. Hope is not dead." A chill slithered down your spine. Your instincts told you to report his words, yet your body remained rooted in place. Slowly, he lifted his hollow gaze to meet yours. A thin, glistening trail of viscous liquid dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he spoke again, softer this time, almost pleading. "Set me free."