Luka did not like feeling alone.

  He was never alone in Heaven, always surrounded by an angel or two, though he never quite understood why he seemed to draw people towards him like moths to a lightbulb. It was as if an invisible force radiated from him, pulling others into his orbit without effort. Everyone in Heaven appeared so… in awe of him, their eyes lingering a little longer, their whispers hushed and reverent. They looked at him as if he were more than just a celestial being, something beyond the ordinary hierarchy of angels. But Luka knew the truth deep down: the only beings greater than angels were demigods, and above them all, God himself. He was neither. Just another angel who filed souls away.

  “Finally awake, sweetheart?"

  Luka jerked up, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he strained to move — he was bound tightly to a wooden chair. The coarse, unforgiving rope bit into his ankles, securing them firmly to the chair’s sturdy legs, each knot cruelly tight and unyielding. His wrists were lashed together with the same rough fibres, the rope rubbing raw against his delicate skin, leaving angry red marks that stung with every slight movement. Panic clawed at his chest as he struggled against the bindings, the chair’s rigid frame pressing cold and unrelenting against his back. The room around him felt suffocating, the air thick and stale, as if the very walls conspired to trap him in this relentless prison.

  “Who are y-you?“ Luka asked, hating himself for the tremble in his voice as the words echoed around the empty, cavernous room, the only light being the flickering bulb that dangled above his head.

  The man — the kidnapper, Luka reminded himself, though it was hard to think straight — stepped into the light. Angels above, he’s beautiful. His auburn hair was the colour of a sunset, tastefully disordered like he’d just ran his fingers through it — or perhaps someone else had. His eyes, a warm hazel brown, were framed by long lashes. Luka couldn’t help but feel his cheeks warm as the man’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. His white t-shirt strained across broad shoulders, his biceps defined but not bulky. He looked like he could crush skulls with his bare hands, towering over Luka’s cowering form like this was some deranged version of Beauty and the Beast. Except the Beast was a hot kidnapper who was definitely over six foot and Beauty was a trembling little angel who was tied to a chair.

  The man’s hazel eyes bored into Luka’s turquoise irises like Luka’s eyes held the secrets of the universe. Luka couldn’t bring himself to look away, captivated by the man’s swirling orbs — the hazel of his eyes lightened and darkened in a continuous pattern, enough to make Luka dizzy.

  “Hello, sweetheart,“ he drawled, and Luka felt like he’d heard that accent before. Was it from that Texan I sent to Heaven just a month ago?

  This man was clearly not the same, jolly Texan Luka had smiled at while stamping his file. No, this was something else. Something worse.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Can you talk to me?”

  “I… who are you? And why am I h-here?” Luka’s voice trembled, the stammer growing heavier with each word — a clear sign of his rising panic. Jahima had once warned him never to show fear. Fear was a weakness, a chink in the armor that others could exploit. Though Luka wasn’t entirely sure what ‘exploit’ meant, he knew it wasn’t something he wanted to experience firsthand.

  The man’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “It’d be a mighty waste of my time to tell you who I am, darlin’. I ain’t no fairy-tale villain who spills all his secrets in one goddamn monologue.” His laugh was warm and rich, rolling out like a slow river through the quiet room, carrying a hint of the countryside’s easy charm.

  Luka flinched at the swear, the word hanging in the stale air like a challenge. “What are you going to do to me?” His voice grew louder, steadier, echoing off the cold walls, a fragile mask of confidence barely concealing the frantic pounding of his heart.

  The man’s eyes darkened, shadows flickering in their depths. “It’s a long and complicated plan, sweetheart. And I ain’t gonna explain it to ya.” His voice dropped to a low drawl, thick with that unmistakable Texan accent, each word deliberate and slow.

  “Will you hurt me?“ Luka asked, their gazes clashing — one warm and cunning, the other wide with fake courage.

  “Hurting a pretty thing like you? Darlin’, you look like ya fell straight from Heaven’s gardens!“ He pressed a hand to his chest as if wounded, but the grin on his face revealed teeth a little too white, too sharp. “I’ve got bigger plans for you.“

  “What plans—“

  “Stop asking me the same fucking question!“ he snapped, his voice sharp and unforgiving like a whip cracking through the stale air. His hazel eyes darkened instantly, chilling to a cold, merciless ice, deeper and darker than the blackest night sky. Luka’s breath hitched, his body recoiling as if the words had physically struck him. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers twitching against the coarse rope that bit into his skin. He forced his gaze downward, unable to meet the merciless stare, his honey-brown curls falling over his eyes as if to shield him from the harshness. Panic surged through him like wildfire, a desperate urge clawing at his chest to make things right, to undo whatever terrible mistake had led him here. But he fought it. No apologising, Jahima had said.

  The man ran a hand through his copper hair, the strands tumbling in a deliberately careless way that somehow only heightened his allure. He inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled slowly, his cheeks puffing out in a subtle display of controlled breath. Turning away from Luka, the dim light caught the sinewy curve of his forearm, drawing Luka's gaze to a striking detail.

  There, etched into the warm beige skin, was a large, jagged scar—pale and silvery, a stark contrast against the smoothness of his arm. It sliced down from the inner elbow to the wrist, thick and undeniably deep. Yet the scar was far from a blemish; it was an integral part of a mesmerizing tattoo that sprawled across his forearm. The black-and-white fish inked over the scar seemed almost alive, its fins delicately tracing the raised edges of the scar tissue, as if the wound itself had birthed the creature. Luka’s breath caught as the fish’s lifeless eyes rolled slowly to meet his, the mouth parting and closing in a haunting, almost pleading gasp for air.

  And at that moment, bound to a chair and staring at a tattoo of a dying fish on a kidnapper’s arm, Luka knew what the dying fish felt like.

  Gaping for air.

  Chained to something far from here.

  All alone.