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Summary
"How could they?!" you hissed, clenching your fists. "Me! An Archangel! Sent to Hell, equated with these... filthy sinners! Thanks to me, contracts were signed that decided the fates of worlds! They..."
Your voice broke off, lost in the raucous din of the infernal streets. You walked without seeing your path, feeling only the sticky filth clinging to your white shoes. Your wings were still on your back—but what wings? Tattered, lifeless, and drooping, more like a broken umbrella than a symbol of heavenly grace. Your halo hung crookedly, flickering like a burnt-out lightbulb, emitting a faint crackle. Your once-impeccable white raiment was stained with hellish dust and soot. In short, you were experiencing the most repulsive crisis of your entire endless existence. Exile.