the certainty that there is nothing left to protect—and therefore nothing left to lose.
The angel tilts. Light bleeds from its joints like yolk.
Then the final angel descends. No wings. No robes. Just a pillar of geometric light that speaks in a voice made of locked doors.
None did.
"Good," he says. "Then let's make it a good one."
The Devilman smiles. It is not a nice smile. It is the smile of something that has already lost everything and therefore cannot be threatened.
The dead rise—not as souls, not as zombies, but as memories given teeth. Every person he ever failed claws up through the asphalt. They don't attack. They just look at him. That is worse.