Ellie didn’t look back. Not once.

  Rowan stood in the vacuum of her absence, pulse still hammering from the verdict. He should’ve argued harder. Should’ve stalled. Should’ve said something, anything, that would have made her hesitate—except there was nothing he could say. Ellie had decided, and when Ellie decided, the world bent to match her will.

  He clenched his fists. His breath came short. His chest ached, but he couldn’t tell if it was rage, betrayal, or just the cosmic joke of his existence finally landing its punchline.

  God of mischief. Agent of chaos. That’s what she called me, right?

  Like that was a crime. Like he was the villain here.

  He scoffed under his breath. Well, I guess villains don’t get last appeals.

  A sentry lifted a hand. The sealed metal door wooshed open—not with gears or hinges, just sheer, effortless command.

  “Follow.”

  The second sentry stayed behind him, a silent furnace of heat and barely-contained violence. Rowan didn’t need reminding what those rods could do—his last dance with one had ended with him unraveling like a badly knitted sweater.

  His gaze flicked around, taking stock. Ellie’s exit? Sealed. His old cell? Dead end. That left one door—his express ticket to whatever brand of psychological torture she’d cooked up for him.

  His gut twisted. Not from fear. Okay, maybe a little from fear. But mostly from a horrifying, practical thought: On Earth, I had to eat. The whole splat-by-truck incident proved he wasn’t invincible, so… what happened if Ellie just skipped the meal plan?

  Is that the punishment? Slowly starving in a hall of mirrors, watching myself get thinner and sadder for eternity?

  His stomach clenched. Maybe from actual hunger. Maybe from the sinking realization that Ellie would absolutely be that thorough.

  I had to eat on Earth. I could die there. What happens if she locks me up with no food? Do I starve, or does she just make me wish I could?

  The sentry behind him shifted, and heat pricked the back of Rowan’s neck—his only warning before things got unpleasant. He didn’t need to see it to know what it meant. Another hit. More pain. Maybe a full round of Let’s See How Many Times We Can Unravel a God Before He Cries.

  He took a step forward, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, no need to get zap-happy. I like my molecules in their current arrangement.”

  The path ahead stretched like a long, gleaming accusation. This was Ellie’s domain, which meant no escape. No bargaining. No lucky breaks.

  …Unless he made one.

  Stalling. Buying time. Playing to his outs. That’s what this called for.

  Alright. Worst poker hand in history. No aces, no face cards, just a couple of fives and a dealer who knows all the rules and makes up new ones when she’s losing.

  That left him with one option: the ancient art of the slow walk.

  He set off at the most obnoxiously deliberate pace possible—just short of getting zapped, but slow enough that if Ellie was watching, she was definitely grinding her teeth.

  The floors and walls gleamed, polished to an unnatural smoothness. Not a scuff, not a shadow, not a whisper of imperfection. The stained glass above bathed everything in fractured reds, golds, and blues—like holy light had been ground into shards and scattered as judgment.

  The corridor was wide enough for three people to walk side by side, but his guards kept formation: one in front, one behind. No gaps. No room for error.

  He wasn’t shackled. That was interesting.

  Not reassuring, though.

  The constructs weren’t just built for intimidation—they were built for war. All precision and efficiency, the kind of warriors who could disassemble him with as much effort as it took to open a jar. He didn’t like his odds.

  His pace slowed, watching how his footsteps barely echoed. The silence here wasn’t natural. It was enforced. Even sound had to play by Ellie’s rules.

  He flicked a glance at his guards. No reaction. No fidgeting. No tells. Just cold, mechanical obedience.

  Not shackled. Not restrained. That had to mean something.

  He could run. Shift. Maybe even fight.

  Let’s break this down. One ahead. One behind. No visible weapons—except the rods, and, well, he’d already learned the hard way what those could do. If he could get some distance—

  A muscle in the sentry’s arm twitched.

  Rowan’s stomach dropped. His breath caught, chest going tight—primal fear, the kind that bypasses thought and goes straight to survival.

  He didn’t react. Couldn’t.

  The guard behind him shifted, heat ghosting over his back. Every instinct screamed move, but he forced himself still. The moment stretched. Then the lead sentry turned forward again, resuming its march like nothing had happened.

  Rowan let out a slow, measured breath, rolling his shoulders like he meant to do that. "Well. That wasn’t terrifying at all."

  Silence.

  The sentries didn’t react. No flinch, no glare. Nothing. Just relentless, mechanical marching—like his fear hadn’t even registered.

  He clicked his tongue. “Tough cro—”

  The rod jabbed into his spine. A white-hot jolt slammed through him, sharp enough to buckle his knees.

  He staggered, barely catching himself, hands shooting up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay! Message received. No backtalk."

  The sentries didn’t acknowledge him. No gloating. No warning. Just perfect, unshakable obedience.

  A tug in his gut—soft at first, then sharp, yanking him forward and up. The ground wasn’t there anymore. Neither were the sentries. His stomach twisted as reality bent, and then—

  Desert air. The scent of Palo Verde blooms and dust.

  He wasn’t in the corridor anymore. He was behind a massive saguaro, unseen, watching a man and a small girl face down two thugs. Recognition hit fast—the guys from the Mercedes SUV. And the kid—he knew her. He didn’t know how, but he did.

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  Magic crackled in the air, tugging at him, dragging his focus to the thug’s gun. Luck magic. Someone was channeling it, sending his awareness along for the ride. He felt the weapon in his mind—felt the moment before the trigger pulled—

  He willed it to jam. The magic responded. The gun locked up, useless. Then, just as suddenly—

  Whiplash. The vision ripped away, and he was yanked back into cold reality.

  “Follow.” The lead sentry had turned, waiting. Watching.

  Rowan barely heard it. His eyes locked onto something else—a thin, glimmering thread of magic stretching from his chest, winding up to the stained glass and beyond. It tugged. Not just on him, but on something deeper, something threaded through his very being.

  His body lurched forward, like a kite yanked into a storm. He staggered, playing up the stumble just long enough for the sentries to react—hands twitching to steady him. That was all the opening he needed.

  He shifted.

  His raven form replaced his human body, and in a heartbeat, he was airborne. He slipped past the sentries with a single beat of his wings. He banked hard, following the fading trace of chaos magic, aiming for the ledge—

  And shifted back just as he hit the glass.

  The impact rattled through him, jarring every bone. He expected resistance, a world beyond the window, maybe even a flash of freedom—

  But there was nothing. No sky. No ground. No cathedral behind him. Just cold darkness swallowing everything.

  Time unraveled. Direction ceased to exist.

  Rowan twisted in the dark, weightless, breath still somehow coming even though there was no air. He tried to scream, but the void devoured sound before it could form. He couldn’t tell if he was tumbling, drifting, or just existing.

  Then—

  A pinprick of light. It swelled. Quarter-sized. Then a car. Then bigger. Swallowing everything.

  Oh great. I’m falling into the sun. After all that, I get incinerated. Ellie always said I’d go out in a blaze of glory.

  The brightness consumed him, pressure closing in from every angle. A deep, crushing force. Not sharp, not searing—just an unbearable, suffocating weight. Like being buried alive under a mountain.

  Every heartbeat was a fresh wave of agony, squeezing tighter, compressing him into something smaller and smaller until—

  Nothing. Blessed, merciful nothing.

  Rowan woke up to the stars. Not the void. Not crushing darkness. Stars.

  The rumble of traffic. The electric buzz of a fluorescent sign. A breeze ghosted over him, cool against his skin. Then the smells hit. Gasoline. Coffee. Trash. Vomit.

  He grimaced. Okay, so not dead. Just somewhere worse.

  He breathed in deep, half reveling in the fact that he could breathe, half regretting it because—yeah, the stench. Ellie was going to be pissed.

  The thought of coffee might have eventually gotten him moving, but the crunch of tires on gravel did it first. His eyes snapped toward the sound.

  Right. I just came back from the dead. Getting pancaked by a car five minutes in would be a terrible look.

  He rolled to his feet, brushing off the worst of whatever questionable alley grime he’d woken up in. Step one: don’t die again. Step two: find coffee.

  He dusted himself off, rolling his shoulders—and froze.

  His hoodie felt… familiar. Too familiar.

  He unzipped it slowly, eyes dropping to the faded Nirvana logo on his t-shirt. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip. This shirt. This exact shirt.

  He hadn’t seen it in twenty-five years. But it wasn’t just the shirt.

  His hand shot up to his face. No beard. Smooth skin.

  His fingers traced his jawline, lingering on the absence of lines he’d long since gotten used to. His chest felt lighter—his whole body did, like he’d shed the years as easily as a jacket.

  He stumbled forward, drawn to the fluorescent glow of a gas station sign. A parked Maserati sat nearby, its side mirror catching just enough light.

  He leaned in.

  Wide eyes. Sharp jaw. No lines, no scruff. Younger. The same face he’d had the day he ascended.

  A slow, shaky breath left him.

  Well. That’s new.

  He patted his pockets. No wallet. No ID. No cash.

  Figures. You’d think I’d have at least ascended with bus fare.

  His eyes flicked to the Maserati. Specifically, to the backpack on the passenger seat. The zipper gaped just enough to reveal a folder—and two crisp twenties clipped to the front.

  Well, hello there.

  A quick glance around. No approaching footsteps. No cameras pointed his way. He tested the door. Locked. Of course.

  But the sunroof? Cracked open just enough.

  He stretched, just barely slipping his fingers through the gap, snagging the folder from the backpack. The cash disappeared into his pocket with the smooth efficiency of someone who’d definitely never stolen gas money before.

  As he turned to leave, the folder slipped from his grasp.

  A gust of wind caught it, scattering papers toward the pumps.

  Oh well. Not his problem.

  Rowan kept his head down, heading for the gas station entrance.

  He spared one last glance at the Maserati. Its license plate read: BIGWNR.

  Of course it does.

  The bell above the gas station door jingled as he stepped inside—

  “What’s this?”

  The words came from outside.

  Rowan flicked a glance toward the pumps—and his stomach lurched.

  Blue and gold. An FBI jacket. The agent stood near the scattered papers, flipping through them, brow furrowed in interest.

  Rowan froze. You have got to be kidding me.

  What were the odds? He escapes divine judgment, literally cheats death, and his first real move on Earth puts him face to face with federal agents?

  Then again… where else would Ellie’s people work?

  He exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax. No sudden moves. No panic. Just coffee.

  Five minutes and two dollars later, Rowan stepped out of the gas station, coffee in one hand, donut in the other. The Maserati owner wasn’t looking quite as smug anymore—mostly because he was handcuffed, slumped against his own car while two FBI agents read him his rights.

  Rowan took a slow sip of coffee, suppressing a grin. Sometimes fortune really did favor the—

  A flicker of movement near the pumps. Not much—just a shift in posture, the way one of the agents turned slightly, eyes scanning the parking lot. Not at him. Not yet. But like they were looking for something.

  Rowan’s stomach knotted. He forced himself to take another sip, casual. Unbothered. Just a guy enjoying his stolen coffee while some rich jackass got arrested. But the atmosphere had changed. He could feel it now, a ripple in the air, the way everything had become just a little too sharp.

  The agent glanced toward the gas station. A second later, the other one did too. Not at him. Not exactly. But close enough that the space between them suddenly felt too small, too exposed.

  His fingers tensed around the cup. Keep walking. Don’t give them a reason.

  Then—“Halt.” The word cut through the night like a gunshot.

  Rowan stiffened.

  “Sir,” the agent behind him said, voice clipped, professional. “I’m going to need you to answer a few questions.”

  Fantastic.

  He let out a long, slow sigh, turning just enough to take stock. No easy exits. No time to shift. The agents were focused, calm—like they’d already made up their minds about him.

  Then he saw the folder in the agent’s hand. His stomach flipped. Peeking out from a stack of papers was a photo of a 50-year-old man with a beard.

  Him. Before the truck.

  His throat went dry. Well. That’s a hell of a coincidence.

  The parking lot lights felt too bright. Too exposed.

  Rowan’s brain screamed at him to move, but his body stayed locked in place. Nowhere to run. No cover.

  Then—SCREECH. A pickup slammed to a stop beside him. Instinct took over.

  He dropped his coffee, dived behind the truck, and by the time his feet hit pavement—

  He wasn’t human anymore.

  Black wings beat against the night air. The world tilted as he launched skyward, heart hammering with the raw, stupid luck of his escape. A croaking laugh rasped from his beak as he cut a sharp turn toward the desert.

  Then the paranoia kicked in. Shit. Cameras.

  He banked hard, gaining altitude, scanning the ground below. Did they see me shift? Am I on some security feed, clear as day, turning into a bird?

  Of course I am. That’s my luck.

  His mind ran through the scenario, picking apart every angle. Couldn’t fight them. Couldn’t let them arrest him. That file—the photo—meant they already had a bead on him.

  And if they’re Ellie’s people, they have more than just badges and guns.

  The FBI would be looking for him now. And next time? They’d be ready.