In the stillness of night, seven souls dreamed—not of divine realms, but of alarm clocks, streetlights, and the hum of human life.

They were no longer radiant fragments of God. They were teachers, students, fighters, and wanderers—each tethered to the fragile rhythm of the world they once watched from above.

Avile stood before a group of high schoolers in a run-down community center. His clothes were simple. His smile, calm. On the whiteboard behind him were the words: "Why are you angry?"

One boy scoffed. "What kind of question is that, sir?"

Avile folded his hands. "It's the one that can save your life."

The class went quiet. Even the ones who mocked him yesterday now listened. There was something strange about him—like he understood them before they spoke.

After class, a student lingered.

"My mom hit me again," she said quietly. "You always talk about peace. But where's the peace in my house?"

Avile crouched to her level. "Peace isn't the absence of pain. It's the courage to face it and still choose to be gentle."

She teared up. He offered no solutions, only presence—and it was enough.

But when he returned to his apartment, and the door clicked shut, the walls pressed in.

"Humility makes you small," he whispered to himself, looking at his own reflection. "But sometimes... it feels like I've disappeared."

Kael bolted down a smoke-filled hallway, axe in hand, fire licking at his jacket.

"Room's clear!" he shouted. "Go, go!"

Outside, a paramedic yelled, "You're gonna kill yourself one day!"

Kael grinned, teeth dusted with soot. "Wouldn't be the worst way to go."

Later, in the quiet of his studio, he crossed off today's goals: Save lives. Replace neighbor's tire. Learn sign language for the deaf kid downstairs.

He stared at the checklist. So many ticks. Yet the page still felt... empty.

His phone buzzed. A friend texted: "You never rest. Why?"

Kael didn't reply. He wrote a new goal: Rest for 1 hour. And underlined it twice.

Elyen sat at her piano in a candle-lit cafe, playing something soft and aching. The kind of melody that makes even busy people stop and feel.

After the set, a girl approached her.

"Are you an angel?" the girl asked with a shy smile.

"No," Elyen said, handing her a hot cocoa. "But I know how to help you believe in them."

She spent her nights volunteering, patching wounds no one saw. Giving hope, coin by coin, hug by hug.

But some nights, she'd sit by herself in the rain, watching cars pass.

"I gave everything today," she'd say to the sky. "And it still wasn't enough."

Tovar leaned against the wall of a small rehab center, arms crossed.

A trembling boy clutched a bottle.

"Just one sip," he whispered. "That's all I need."

Tovar stepped forward. "You think that bottle knows your pain?"

The boy looked up, confused.

"It doesn't care," Tovar said. "But I do."

The boy dropped the bottle. Tovar caught it before it shattered.

Later, he sat on the rooftop alone, holding it loosely.

"You're not my temptation," he muttered. "You're my reminder."

He unscrewed the cap, poured the contents onto the street below, and breathed deep.

Mael worked in a therapy clinic filled with soft music and gentle light.

A war veteran sat across from him, fists clenched.

"I dream of the ones I couldn't save."

Mael nodded. "And the ones you did?"

The man blinked. "I never dream of them."

"Start there," Mael said softly. "Peace begins in small remembering."

Later, Mael meditated under a tree, whispering to the wind.

"I balance others... but who balances me?"

He placed his palm on the earth and whispered a prayer no one would ever hear.

Vale jogged through a rainstorm, hoodie soaked, sneakers splashing through puddles. He saw an old woman struggling with groceries.

"Need a hand?" he smiled.

She waved him off. "You're soaked!"

"I'm waterproof," he grinned.

After helping her home, she pressed a sandwich into his hand.

"Why do you help people, boy?"

He took a bite. "Because one day, someone waited for me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Did they show up?"

He paused. Swallowed. "Not yet. But they will."

Later, Vale sat on a park bench, feeding birds, his hoodie dripping.

"I believe in the long road," he whispered. "Even if I walk it alone."

Obil sat in a quiet apartment filled with clocks. None of them ticked. He stared at a photo of a woman and child.

A voice message played from his phone. "Dad, it's me. I had that dream again—the one where everything burns. Call me back."

He didn't.

Outside, he helped an elderly man carry his groceries. Held a door open. Gave his umbrella to a soaked teenager.

"Thank you," they all said.

He nodded, smiling. But when he turned away, it faded.

At night, he sat in silence, tracing a name on an old photograph.

"I used to be thankful," he whispered. "But what do you do when there's nothing left to be thankful for?"

Above it all, Mikhael and Gabriel watched from the veil.

"He's drifting," Gabriel said, concern in his voice.

Mikhael nodded. "We were fools to think divine pain would teach them clarity."

Gabriel turned to the earth. "It taught them humanity."

"And Obil?" Mikhael asked.

Gabriel frowned. "He feels everything... and remembers too much."

Far below, in the realm of shadows, Lucifer chuckled.

"The fall doesn't begin with hate," he murmured. "It begins when gratitude dies."