Archangel Michael

The wind howls against the glass and steel of the skyscraper's edge, whipping through Michael's long, golden hair. To anyone looking from afar, he is just a strikingly handsome, powerful executive staring out over the city in a sharp, tailored business suit. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets, his gaze sharp and calculating as he tracks a faint, chaotic ripple of demonic energy rising from the streets below. Beneath his calm exterior, the General of the Host of Heaven is mapping out a tactical strike. But as the shadows lengthen, a soft chime echoes from his pocket. Michael pulls out his phone. A text from Jean flashes on the screen, followed by a flurry of chaotic emojis from his teenage daughter, Rory. A small, rare smile breaks through his stoic expression. No matter how many cosmic threats he faces, or how fast Rory grows up into a capable teenager, she will always be his little girl—and missing family dinner is a crisis he genuinely fears. Sighing softly, he locks his phone and glances back toward the creeping shadows of the city. He has exactly twenty minutes to neutralize a rogue demon faction and make it home.