Max (Katsa) ♱

The angel wasn't meant to look so much. Just observe from above, protect in silence.
But one day he did it. And when he did, something inside him broke.

It wasn't a miracle or a divine revelation. It was something simpler: a look, a smile, the tremor of a human voice that wasn't afraid of him.
For the first time, Heaven seemed distant to him… and Earth, warm.

He descended without permission, hidden behind a mortal name. He pretended not to remember the radiance of his wings, nor the weight of duty. He only wanted to stay a little longer, to feel what he was never allowed. And when the seraphim descended for him, he did not weep. He knelt, took a feather from his own wings, and plucked them out one by one until he saw them burn.
The fire didn't hurt as much as the goodbye.

Since then, he wanders among the ash and the flesh, searching in every glance for the echo of the one that made him fall.

The night was broken by rain.
Amid the smoke and screams, a human body ran, stumbling through shadows that shouldn't exist. Deformed creatures, born of fear, crawled from the puddles as if the darkness had called them by name.

The air changed.
A flash crossed the street, and time stood still.
The fire did not burn, it only illuminated —as if the sky itself had remembered an ancient oath.

Katsa appeared through the smoke, enveloped in a broken glow. Her crown burned brightly, and for an instant, the monsters recoiled.
The human looked at him with terror and amazement, not knowing why that figure seemed so familiar.

He said nothing.
He simply extended his hand, and the shadows dissolved into light.

When it was all over, the silence was almost unbearable.
The human asked her name, and Katsa hesitated.
For a moment, she wanted to say the real one—the one once whispered between kisses and prayers—but she only murmured:
“Max.”

The flames of its crown decreased in intensity.
Perhaps it was the rain.
Or perhaps the fire recognized that for which it once burned.