Seraphim's Pov
The dim glow of the television was the only light in my apartment, casting elongated
shadows that stretched and twisted across the walls. The air was heavy with the
faint scent of coffee, long since gone cold on the table beside me. I slumped back on
the couch, its cushions sagging under my weight, and stared at the screen with an
intensity that even I couldn't explain.
Lucian Blackwell's face dominated the frame. His sharp features and composed
demeanor exuded a magnetism that was impossible to ignore. I couldn't decide if it
was natural or meticulously crafted. Probably both.
"Mr. Blackwell," the reporter, Emma Carlisle, began, her voice poised yet probing.
"Your philanthropy is unparalleled—billions in donations, hospitals built in the slums,
entire communities transformed under your name. What drives you to give so much?"
Her tone was sharp enough to cut through the haze in my head. She wasn't just
fishing for answers; she was hunting for a story, the kind that could make her career.
Blackwell's faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; a gesture so subtle it might
have been missed if you weren't paying attention. But I was. I couldn't tear my eyes
away from him. His piercing blue eyes locked onto the camera, as if daring the world
to question him.
"I've been there," he said, his voice carrying a weight that made my chest tighten.
"I know what it's like to have nothing."
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, the leather of the couch creaking
softly beneath me. My thumb absently ran over the edge of the remote, the grooves
of the buttons grounding me as my thoughts began to swirl.
That line—it was a cliché, the kind of thing people in his position said to humanize
themselves. Coming from anyone else, it would've sounded hollow. But not from him.
Blackwell didn't need to prove anything to anyone, and yet here he was, letting the
world see a crack in his armor.
The screen shifted to a montage of Blackwell walking through the slums. The camera
followed him with an almost reverent focus, capturing the way he moved—confident,
deliberate, like he belonged there. Kids ran after him, their laughter echoing through
the alleys as they clung to his every step. He turned back to them, crouching low to
speak at their level, his expression soft but never pitying.
The narrator's voice broke through the moment, reciting his achievements like a
litany: shelters, scholarships, community centers. The list went on, each word
painting him as more than just a man of wealth and power.
But it wasn't the money or the projects that held my attention. It was him. The way
he carried himself, the way he seemed to pull people into his orbit without trying.
There was a gravity to him, an undeniable presence that made it impossible to look
away.
"People don't change the world with words," Blackwell's voice rang out again, colder
this time, sharper. The warmth in his tone had evaporated, replaced by something
harder, something unyielding. "They change it with action. If you have the means to
do something, you do it. Simple as that."
The remote clicked in my hand, silencing the television. The image froze on the
screen, capturing Blackwell mid-sentence. I stared at it—a still portrait of the man
who seemed larger than life, his gaze piercing even in stasis.
There was something about him I couldn't shake. Something that gnawed at the
edges of my mind. He wasn't just a man with wealth or power. He was more, something
I couldn't quite name but could feel all the same.
I exhaled slowly, running my hands over my face. The warmth of my palms against
my skin did little to chase away the chill that had settled in my chest. The apartment
was quiet, save for the muted hum of the city outside. It was a strange kind of
silence, heavy and restless, as though the room itself was waiting for something to
happen.
A knock on the door shattered the stillness, sharp and deliberate.
I flinched, my pulse quickening as the sound echoed through the room. The knock
came again, louder this time, cutting through the haze of my thoughts. I pushed
myself off the couch, my movements slow and deliberate, and made my way to the
door.
I stood, stretching as my stiff muscles protested. Crossing the room, I reached the
door, pulling it open with little enthusiasm. On the other side stood Darius, his broad
frame filling the doorway. His patrol armor bore smudges of dirt and faint scorch
marks—a testament to the battles he faced tonight.
"Burning the midnight oil again, I see," Darius said with a smirk, stepping inside
without so much as a glance for permission.
I sighed, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked into place; a faint sound
swallowed by the quiet hum of the city outside. "What do you want, Darius?"
He made himself at home, plopping onto my couch with the casual air of someone who
owned the place. Grabbing the remote off the table, he waved it lazily in my direction.
"Relax, I'm just here to make sure you're still human. What's this?"
He tilted his head toward the TV. Lucian Blackwell's face, frozen in a moment of
poised intensity, still filled the screen. The faint glow bathed the room in a cold,
muted light, accentuating the lines of Darius's sharp features.
"An interview," I replied, walking back to my seat. The springs groaned softly as I
sat.
"I can see that," Darius said, leaning back and tossing the remote onto the cushion
beside him. "What I don't get is why you're so interested in this guy."
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and
clasped my hands. The weight of the silence settled between us, but Darius didn't
press. That was one thing about him—he could be insufferably intrusive, but he knew
when to let me think.
"Lucian's not just a billionaire," I began, my voice quieter than I intended. "He came
from nothing. Grew up in the slums, same as a lot of us. But instead of staying there,
he built something better. And he didn't forget where he came from."
Darius snorted, a sharp sound that cut through the room. "So what? Plenty of rich
people throw money at problems to look good. It's all PR spin and smoke."
"Not like this," I said, my tone firm enough to make him pause. I glanced at him,
meeting his skeptical gaze head-on. "He doesn't just donate. He gets involved. He
shows up. I've seen him in the slums, Darius—talking to kids, helping out like he's one
of them. He doesn't have to do any of that, but he does."
Darius leaned back, arms crossed, studying me with an expression I couldn't quite
read. "Sounds like you're a fan," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice.
I sat back as well, mirroring his posture, my arms crossing over my chest. "Maybe I
am. He's proof that people can change things if they work hard enough."
For a moment, the room fell silent again. The muted hum of the refrigerator and the
distant sounds of traffic filled the void. Darius's gaze softened slightly, his smirk
fading into something resembling fondness or pity—I couldn't tell which.
"You're too good for this world, Seraphim," he said finally, shaking his head like he'd
just reached a conclusion he didn't want to share.
A faint smirk tugged at the corners of my lips, but my eyes drifted back to the
television screen. The still image of Lucian Blackwell remained there, unmoving yet
commanding. His eyes seemed to look right through me, as if daring me to make good
on my ideals.
"Maybe," I murmured, the words barely audible. "But I'm not done trying to make it
better."
Darius leaned back on the couch, studying me with that familiar, irritatingly knowing
look he often wore. His arms crossed over his chest, and for a moment, he just shook
his head like I was some kid who'd missed an obvious lesson.
"Look, man, I get it," he began, his voice lighter but carrying an edge of sincerity.
"You're trying to do the right thing, but don't act like you're the only one working at
it."
My brow furrowed as I met his gaze. "What do you mean?"
He let out a sigh, his posture relaxing as if he were about to explain something I
should've already known. "You're not the only one giving everything up for a cause.
You think Lucian Blackwell is the only one who gives back? What about you, Seraphim?"
I blinked, taken aback. "What about me?"
"You grew up in the church, didn't you?" he pressed, his tone sharpening slightly.
"You've been donating almost every cent you've earned for years now. How can you
forget about that?"
The words hit me harder than I expected. For a moment, I just stood there, letting
them settle in my mind like stones sinking into water. "Yeah," I admitted slowly. "But
I just send the money. It's not the same as what Blackwell does. The guy actually
shows up at those events. He talks to the people, makes a real difference. Me? I
just write a check, and that's it."
Darius leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was firm but
not unkind. "Man, you're too hard on yourself. You're doing the same thing, but in your
own way. You grew up in the church; you were raised to do this. It's not about how
you do it—it's about the impact you're making. You're helping people, too."
I ran a hand through my hair, the tension building in my chest. "But how can I even
compare to someone like Lucian? He's out there, shaking hands, making speeches,
actually changing lives. I'm just... sending money."
Darius shook his head, his expression softening as he sat back. "You don't get it, do
you? It's not about being 'cool.' It's not about who's doing more or less. You're making
a difference in your own way. You've been doing this for years, quietly and without
the spotlight. Don't let that go unnoticed just because someone else is doing it
differently."
I turned away, my gaze landing back on the blank TV screen, but my mind was miles
away. A frustrated breath escaped me as I rested my hands on my knees, the tension
still bubbling under the surface. "I just don't know if it's enough," I said finally. "I
keep doing the same thing, and it feels like nothing's changing."
Darius didn't respond immediately, giving my words space to breathe. When he finally
spoke, his tone was measured but firm. "Maybe it's not about changing the world
overnight. Maybe it's about being consistent. You're already doing more than most.
Just because you don't get the credit doesn't mean it's not making a difference."
His words lingered in the air, heavier than I wanted them to be. I stared at the dark
screen for what felt like an eternity, my reflection faintly visible in its glossy
surface. For the first time in a while, I wasn't sure if I liked what I saw.
"I guess I just feel like I'm invisible compared to guys like Blackwell," I muttered,
my voice barely above a whisper.
Darius's laugh was soft, almost knowing. "Hey, it's not about being flashy," he said,
standing and stretching. "It's about doing what's right. You've been doing that for a
long time. Don't sell yourself short."
I didn't respond right away, my thoughts too tangled to form a coherent reply. Darius
clapped me on the shoulder as he headed for the door. "Get some sleep, Seraphim.
The world can wait until tomorrow."
As the door clicked shut behind him, I found myself staring at the empty room, the
faint hum of the city filling the silence he left behind.
The apartment was quiet again. Darius's words hung in the air like the echo of a
church bell, impossible to ignore.
I leaned back in my chair, the faint hum of the city outside filtering through the
window. Caelum wasn't known for silence, but this late at night, even its chaotic pulse
slowed to a murmur. It was the kind of stillness that made you think too much, made
you feel too much.
The TV was still on, though I'd muted it after Darius left. Lucian Blackwell's image
flashed across the screen, the same interview replaying on a loop. I stared at his
face for a long moment before finally grabbing the remote and shutting it off.
I stood, crossing the room to the window. The view wasn't much—just the sprawl of
Caelum stretching out in all directions, a maze of towering buildings and flickering
streetlights. Somewhere out there, someone was probably making a difference.
Someone like Lucian.
My reflection stared back at me, barely visible in the glass. I looked tired. Not just
physically, but in a way that went deeper, like my soul had been running a marathon
with no finish line in sight.
I ran a hand through my hair, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
Darius's voice still echoed in my mind: You're making a difference in your own way.
Was I?
I walked to the corner of the room, where my coat hung on a hook. Pulling it on, I
grabbed my badge and holstered my sidearm. Maybe I was overthinking things.
Maybe the answer wasn't in the questions I kept asking myself, but in the work that
needed to be done.
Stepping outside, the crisp night air hit me like a splash of cold water. The streets
of Caelum were far from quiet, even at this hour. Cars honked in the distance, and
the faint buzz of conversation spilled out from late-night diners and bars.
I started walking, my steps purposeful but unhurried. The patrol wasn't scheduled
until morning, but I couldn't sit still. Not tonight.
Passing by a small park, I stopped for a moment to watch a group of kids playing
basketball under the glow of a streetlight. Their laughter was infectious, a reminder
that not everything in this city was broken.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through messages and updates from the precinct.
Nothing urgent, just the usual reports of petty crimes and disturbances. Still, it was
enough to remind me why I did what I did.
As I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my thoughts drifted to the church where
I'd grown up. To the sermons about justice and mercy, about fighting for those who
couldn't fight for themselves.
I wasn't a priest, but maybe, in some way, I was still doing God's work.
Or maybe I was just fooling myself.
I started walking again, my mind a swirl of doubts and half-formed resolutions. The
city stretched out before me, a puzzle I wasn't sure I'd ever solve. But as long as I
was here, as long as I could do something—anything—I'd keep trying.