Serah gaped at him. “Would you have apologized?”

“No. I did nothing wrong.”

Luce laughed bitterly to himself, clenching his hand into a fist, crushing the flower before throwing it to the ground.

Message received.

But if God were waiting for an apology, he'd be waiting a long fucking time.

Countless colorful lights bounced off the Red Sea at night, surrounding the city of Eilat like a vibrant rainbow. Luce stood along the shoreline, staring out at the darkness, watching as the streaks of color rippled and swayed in the waves. The cool water lapped at his bare feet in regular intervals, receding before rushing back at him, over and over again.

He savored the sensation as he dug his toes into the wet sand, reminiscing of a time, not long ago, when the water before him boiled, a sea of bloody sludge he'd single-handedly brewed.

It had only been a few days time, yet every trace of his presence—every trace of the Great Battle that had taken place in the sacred land around him—had already been erased. Removed from existence, and from the minds of the people who lived and worked along these shores. They all forgot, already, while Luce remained cursed to remember every bit of it.

Every sordid detail, every single mistake, every second of heartache had been embedded in his brain, as crisp and clear as the moment it happened. The chaos he'd been accustomed to the past six thousand years—the cries for mercy, the screams of agonizing pain that constantly tried to force itself out of the confinement within his skull—was replaced with something else now: absolute silence.

There was no one, and nothing, to keep him company except for his nagging memories. He was still plugged into the Angel Network, but they knew he was listening now. The angels purposely blocked him from their thoughts, silenced their chatter to keep him in the dark, whispering occasionally in code so he wouldn't understand.

Blah blah fucking blah… nothing but bullshit.

It never ended.

Luce thought it was what he'd wanted—the silence, the peace—but what he hadn't anticipated was the loneliness. Nobody had bothered him, nobody had come for him, nobody even seemed to be concerned about him.

Why?

A loud pop of static electricity rocked the air behind him as he considered that. Luce tensed, expecting the pungent odor of his brother to assault his senses, like maybe he'd conjured him up, but instead a peculiar spicy scent wafted around him.

Whiskey and cigar smoke?

"Well, I'll be damned," a vaguely familiar voice spoke, low and gritty, with the hint of a Scottish accent.

Luce smiled to himself in recognition. "You almost were damned."

"Almost," he agreed. "Unlike you, though, I came to my senses."

"No, unlike me, you lost your fucking nerve."

Hearty laughter rang out. "Touché, my friend."

Friend.

Luce turned around, looking away from the glistening water, and glanced at his old friend for the first time in ages. "Abaddon."

Abaddon stood tall, dressed in a crisp blue suit, his bright white wings shimmering in the darkness. There was sharpness about him, his jawline chiseled, his nose pointy, his eyebrow cocked condescendingly.

His expression seemed harsh, but amusement danced in his light blue eyes, a stark contrast to his olive skin and long jet-black hair, pulled back at the nape.

"Luce," he said. "That was quite an entrance you made, nearly destroying the planet when you waltzed in. The guys upstairs had their panties in a twist. They seemed to think for a moment you might succeed."

"I bet," Luce said. "But in my defense, well... never mind. Fuck it. I have no defense."

And no apologies, either.

Abaddon laughed. "You never did."

Comfortable silence settled around them for a moment before Luce let out a deep sigh. "The big guy send you?"

Abaddon shook his head. "Nope. Just had to see you with my own eyes."

Luce threw his hands up and motioned toward himself. "Well, get a good look, because it's only a matter of time before I'm gone again."

Truthfully, Luce was surprised he was still standing on the surface. After Michael had spared Serah, he'd expected his brother to cast him right back into the pit. He wouldn't have fought it—fighting was senseless. Luce had thrown his last card and lost the final game.

But instead of banishing him—instead of punishing him—Michael had simply left. A second before he vanished, a telltale sparkling glow had surrounded him, enveloping him, sweeping him away. It was something Luce knew no one else could've seen, not even the other low-level winged bastards like Abaddon, but enough Archangel lingered in him to detect it. He'd even felt it briefly, the prickly sensation on his skin.

Their Father had summoned Michael.

And ever since his tantrum afterward, Luce had merely been wandering around the Earth, bouncing from place to place as he waited for Michael to reappear to finish what they'd started.

"Nah, you aren't going anywhere," Abaddon said. "It's not like you have anywhere to go, right?"

"Right." Luce drew out the word, eyeing the angel strangely. He could detect a hint of confusion in his voice. He knew when somebody was prying for information. You can't con a conman. "Don't bullshit me, Don. Why are you really here?"

Casually, Abaddon shrugged a shoulder. "Curiosity."

"About what?"

A fraction of a second hesitation. "About why you gave up so easily."