The familiar chime of the bakery door greeted Angelica as she slipped inside, Riku and Rika flanking her like silent, silver guardians. The warm aroma of cinnamon and baked bread engulfed her, yet a disquiet wormed its way into her chest. The encounter with Justin lingered, leaving a tangled knot of emotions in its wake.

His eyes, an unnatural shade of blue, had held a chill that echoed the city's steel but also harbored a spark that ignited a strange warmth within her. It was a flicker of recognition, a subtle echo of the golden-eyed savior who had pulled her from the shadows, an encounter she still grappled with.

"What a strange man," she murmured, the words heavy on her tongue, echoing the unease in her heart.

The evening bloomed into a familiar symphony of warmth and laughter. Dinner with her family was a sanctuary from the outside world. Riku's witty remarks, laced with the easy humor that mirrored her father's, brought a genuine smile to her lips. Rika, with her gentle nature that so closely resembled her mother, filled the room with a sense of belonging.

They were more than just androids, Riku and Rika. They were the threads that wove her family tapestry, a constant presence since her earliest memories. It was her parents, the robot twins, and her. A family, unique and cherished.

The news flickered in the background, Alexander Beaumont's face dominating the screen. His charisma, his power, and his very existence were a stark contrast to her hidden reality. A pang of shame pricked at her conscience.

Alexander was the true idol. Everyone revered him, their eyes filled with awe as they basked in his celestial radiance. He was perfect – a proud, intelligent, benevolent Angel. Everything she longed to be.

In this society where Celestials were elevated to godlike status, he was the pinnacle. Humans treated them with reverence, worshipping their every word and glorifying their existence. Angels were the embodiment of perfection, the ideal beings to which everyone aspired.

The girl sighed, a heavy weight settling on her chest. She, too, was an Angel, yet she felt nothing like the celebrated figures on the screen. Shame shadowed her every step, a constant reminder of her lineage. Why her? The question had haunted her for as long as she could remember. It was a rare occurrence – a human couple blessed with a celestial child. Yet, she never felt blessed, rather burdened.

Her gaze returned to Alexander on the screen. He was an idol, a beacon of hope in a world teetering on the edge. But she yearned to be like him, to embrace her heritage, not be so utterly terrified of the very thing that made her unique.

"Mr. Beaumont, if you could share a final message with our viewers," the presenter said, a smile stretching across his face.

Alexander's voice resonated through the room, captivating and full of charm. "Don't lose hope," he declared, his words echoing in the silence that followed. "Trust in us, Angels. We are here to guide you." The studio erupted in applause, their reverence palpable.

Angelica switched off the news, a sense of isolation washing over her. Bidding farewell to her family, she retreated to the sanctuary of her room, the weight of her secret identity pressing down on her.

Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the image of the celebrated leader. Why was she different? Why did her abilities feel like shackles, her celestial heritage a curse instead of a gift? Her parents, oblivious to the storm brewing within her, saw only a daughter in need of rest. Their love, although genuine, felt like another layer of the cage she felt trapped within.

Alone in the quiet of her room, she sought solace in her paints. Colors swirled on the canvas, a vivid reflection of the turmoil within. The vibrant hues spoke of confusion, longing, and a flicker of rebellion against the constraints she felt bound by.

As she painted, a sense of calm settled over her, the brushstrokes acting as a soothing balm to her troubled soul. Gazing at the finished piece, she saw a woman of breathtaking beauty and unyielding spirit, a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to herself. She smiled. Maybe one day she will become as strong as that imaginary woman she painted.

In the muted glow of his ultramodern apartment, Justin watched the Alexander Beaumont interview with a sardonic smile playing on his lips. He could practically taste the man's manufactured charisma, and it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

He, a half-breed Angel, loathed the pristine perfection of his full-blooded brethren. He belonged nowhere, an outcast scorned by both humans and Angels. Angels mocked him for his human blood, viewing him as inferior – a taboo abomination. Humans, in their ignorance, feared what they didn't understand. Celestine, the Angel who had trained him, was the only exception – the one pureblood Angel he trusted. The rest? He despised them all – their forced benevolence, their hypocrisy.

He was an Angel Hunter, tasked with eliminating rogue Angels who defied the Celestial authority. A duty, not a choice, bound by a contract he couldn't break.

Justin sighed, pushing the resentment aside for now. Dwelling wouldn't change the past. Jagna, his holographic companion, materialized beside him.

"Master," she announced, her voice cool and synthetic, "as per your request, I have investigated the girl. The data indicates Angelica is a human, raised by humans."

Disappointment flickered across his face. Yet, a nagging suspicion lingered. A voice whispered in the back of his mind, refusing to accept the presented facts. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was her, that familiar spark he recognized in Angelica.

Was she the Angel who saved him? His memory remained fragmented, the night veiled in shadows. The Angel, with her ethereal beauty, had hair of spun gold, almost white – that detail remained etched in his mind. Yet, the inexplicable pull towards the baker girl, the echo of that celestial aura… made him doubt the reliability of his recollection.

He approached the expansive window, his gaze sweeping across the glittering cityscape, a stark contrast to the turmoil within. "Angelica," he murmured, the name a soft echo on his lips. "Just a baker?" He couldn't dismiss the lingering feeling of familiarity, the memory of that strange warmth emanating from her. He frowned, lost in thought.

"Well," he finally muttered to himself, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, "even if she's not the Angel, maybe I can negotiate a discounted rate on those pastries."