Rain fell gently on the streets of New York City, casting shimmering reflections of neon lights onto the pavement. Amidst the buzz of honking cabs and murmured conversations, a young man stood quietly at the corner of 5th and Lexington. He wore a charcoal coat over a modest grey hoodie, a messenger bag slung across his chest. His eyes, thoughtful and distant, held a strange softness—as though he carried a thousand years of memories behind them.
His name was **Avile**.
To the world, he was a humble caregiver in his mid-twenties—quiet, reliable, always listening more than he spoke. But to those who could see beyond flesh and name, he was the **Archon of Humility**, a shard of the divine tasked with watching, learning, and remembering.
He worked at a small orphanage on the outskirts of the city called **Haven's Rise**, a place run-down in structure but rich in spirit. The children there knew him as **Brother Avile**—the gentle big brother who helped them with homework, solved their quarrels, taught them how to draw dragons and write stories, and always remembered everyone's birthday.
As he pushed open the orphanage gate and stepped inside, the familiar scent of old wood and warm bread greeted him. From the porch, a young woman with auburn hair tied in a loose ponytail waved at him, carrying a tray of snacks.
"Late again, Avile," she said with a teasing smirk, nudging his shoulder playfully.
Avile smiled softly, shaking rain from his coat. "The city traffic's getting worse by the day. Or maybe time just runs faster when you're not watching."
This was **Amelia**, 23 years old, bright and kind-hearted. She had lived at Haven's Rise her whole life, just like Avile, and now worked full-time as a caregiver. The children adored her and called her "Sister Amelia." Her warm presence brought light to every hallway.
"Don't go turning philosophical on me now," Amelia said, handing him a towel. Her tone held a gentle affection and a light scolding. "Mother Sophia wants to see you. Something about a new girl."
"New girl?" Avile asked, concern flashing in his eyes. "Is she alright?"
Amelia nodded slowly. "She's... quiet. Scared, I think. We tried, but she hasn't really opened up. Her name's Evelin. Her mother passed away not long ago... and after that, her father left her here. Poor thing's been through too much."
Avile's expression softened further as they walked into the main hall. The children were playing, laughter echoing faintly down the corridors. He paused to ruffle the hair of a boy who ran past, then headed to the kitchen, where **Mother Sophia** usually stayed.
The elderly woman looked up from her kneading bowl, her snow-white hair neatly tied back in a bun, her eyes full of warmth and wisdom.
"There you are," she said. "You're late. Again."
"I know, Mother Sophia. Amelia already scolded me," Avile replied with a sheepish smile.
"Good," she murmured approvingly. "Room four. Evelin. She just arrived last night. She's barely spoken. And Avile... she's hurting."
Without hesitation, Avile made his way upstairs. He knocked gently before opening the door to room four. Inside, a small girl huddled on the bed, holding a faded stuffed rabbit to her chest. Her cheeks were stained with tears, her eyes tired and wary.
Avile sat down on the floor near the bed, keeping his tone gentle. "Hey. I'm Avile. That's a nice bunny you have there. What's their name?"
The girl didn't respond, just hugged the toy tighter.
"Would it be okay if I sat here a while? You don't have to talk. Just sit."
He began to hum—an old lullaby, one Evelin's mother used to sing to her. The soft melody filled the room with warmth and familiarity. Evelin's eyes widened. A memory stirred. She remembered the comfort of her mother's arms, the safety of that voice. Her grip on the bunny loosened, and slowly, she looked up at him.
Avile didn't rush. He stayed with her, matching her silence with kindness. As the lullaby continued, Evelin moved closer to him. The warmth in the song enveloped her like a blanket.
"I'm scared," she whispered, tears building again.
Avile reached out, gently brushing her hair from her face. "I know. It's okay to be scared. But you're not alone anymore. We're all here for you."
She hesitated, then whispered, "When will I go back to my house?"
Avile looked at her, composed. "I'm not sure. But this place can be your home too."
"Will... will my mother or father come to pick me up? Will I see them again?"
His heart ached. He took her small hand into his. "I don't know, little star. But I do know this place is filled with people who care about you. And I'll be here. Whenever you need."
She nodded slowly, leaning into his side.
After a moment of quiet, Evelin looked up again and asked in a small voice, "Am I... a piece of shit? My dad called me that. He said I reminded him of Mama."
Avile didn't flinch. He held her tighter. "No. You're not. You're precious. And you're loved. Whatever he said—he was wrong. You are not what he made you feel."
The girl blinked, her tears falling more freely now. But she clung to him, and slowly her trembling eased.
He coaxed her downstairs with gentle encouragement, holding her hand as they entered the dining hall. Amelia greeted her with a warm smile and knelt beside her.
"I'm Amelia. You can call me Sister Amelia, like the others. Want to eat together?"
Evelin looked at Avile, who nodded encouragingly. The girl sat beside Amelia, nibbling cautiously on her plate.
Later, a boy named Tomás brought his favorite picture book and showed Evelin the pages with dragons and castles. Evelin's eyes lit up briefly, just a spark—but it was enough.
By evening, she was sitting with the other children, watching cartoons and holding her bunny. She giggled once when Tomás made a paper animal hop into her lap.
Amelia and Avile stood by the door, watching.
"She smiled," Amelia whispered.
Avile's lips curved. "She's strong."
"You've gotten even better at this," Amelia said, nudging his arm lightly. "Seriously. I don't know how you do it."
He shrugged modestly. "Just... remembering what it felt like. To be her."
Mother Sophia joined them quietly, arms folded with satisfaction.
"He's always been like this," she said. "Even when he was no older than Evelin, he looked after the other children."
"And now the children would be lost without him," Amelia added.
Sophia nodded. "We all would."
Later that night, as Avile tucked Evelin into bed, she looked up at him again.
"Avile... I never told anyone this, but that lullaby… my mama used to sing it to me. How did you know?"
Avile paused, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Lucky guess, maybe."
She nodded slowly. "I hope... I get to see her again. Or maybe Papa will come back."
Avile's expression remained gentle, though his heart twisted. He stayed with her until she drifted off.
Once she was asleep, he stepped quietly into the hallway and found Amelia waiting.
"She doesn't know," he said.
Amelia looked confused. "What do you mean?"
"About her mother. Or that her father left her. She still thinks they might come back."
Amelia's eyes widened slightly. "We never asked. We thought it might be too painful."
"She asked when she'd go back home. And if they'd come pick her up."
"Oh... Avile... how will you tell her?"
Avile sighed. "I don't know. I guess… I'll think about it when the time comes."
He walked off toward the living room, where the children were playing.
Amelia stayed there a moment longer, then turned as Sophia stepped beside her.
"He's changed," Amelia said.
"He's grown," Sophia agreed. "But his heart is still the same."
---
Far away, in another place...
The ruined orphanage reeked of burnt flesh and blood.
Obil stood at the center of a ritual circle etched in gore—more than thirty small bodies lay scattered, their blood forming ancient demonic sigils. Their lifeless faces stared upward as if still pleading. A cold wind stirred the ashes.
He had infiltrated this orphanage weeks ago. Gained their trust. Waited. Until tonight.
Obil knelt and sliced his palm. His blood fell into the center of the symbol, merging with the rest.
The sigils began to glow.
Pressure descended, heavy and suffocating.
Then a tear in space ripped open, and from it stepped **Azazil**—tall, terrible, with ashen skin veined with fire, curved horns, and eyes that radiated infernal might.
He looked around, eyes narrowing. "You? You dared summon me?"
Obil stood slowly. His voice was calm, hollow. "It took me three lives to prepare this. Four to find the right sign. And one to accept the price."
Azazil crossed his arms, intrigued and disgusted. "And the massacre?"
"The final key."
A pause.
"You want something."
"A deal."
"What do you offer in return?"
Obil looked skyward, his gaze piercing something unseen. A thin smile curved his lips.
"Amusement. Or destruction."
Azazil stared long, then nodded slowly.
"Very well."
---
Later, Azazil knelt before **Lucifer** in a hall of thorns and obsidian.
"He summoned you?" Lucifer asked.
"Yes. And he carries something broken inside."
"You agreed?"
Azazil nodded. "Not out of fear. Because I've seen the path he walks. He won't stand against us."
Lucifer's eyes gleamed. "Then let the game begin."
---
Back in Haven's Rise, Evelin tugged Avile's sleeve as he tucked her in.
"Goodnight, Avile."
He smiled. "Goodnight, little star."
He turned off the light, and the room faded to gentle shadows. Outside, rain pattered against the windows.
Avile stood silently for a moment, the warmth of the day lingering.
But far beyond, something darker began to stir.
And the heavens held their breath.