Chapter 6: A Favor for an Angel

Chapter 6: A Favor for an Angel

The war was a distant hum, an abstraction viewed from a soundproof heaven. Julian’s “spring cleaning” was methodical, a series of discreet reports delivered by his impassive guards. A warehouse fire here, a supply shipment gone missing there. It was all business, clean and impersonal, and Elara found a grim, shameful comfort in the distance. She focused on her work, losing herself in the intricate genealogies of Renaissance patrons. If she didn't look down, she could almost pretend the fires weren't burning.

Her only tether to her old life, to the woman she used to be, was Chloe. Her best friend. A fiery, no-nonsense journalist who had been her anchor through college, financial panics, and terrible breakups. Elara had managed to send a single, carefully worded text from the tablet Julian had provided: Incredible new job opportunity. Long hours, NDA, can’t talk much. Will explain when I can. Love you. It was a pathetic lie, but it was all she had. Chloe’s reply was a string of skeptical emojis followed by, As long as they’re paying you what you’re worth. Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Call me.

That message was three days old. Elara stared at it every night, a painful reminder of a world where bastards were just bad bosses, not philanthropic murderers. Her most fervent desire was to keep that world separate, to keep the corruption of her new reality from touching the purity of her past.

The obstacle arrived not with a bang, but with a soft chime from her tablet. It was a message from an unknown account. There was no text. Just an attachment. A single image.

Her blood turned to ice.

It was Chloe. Her vibrant red hair was matted with grime, a stark contrast to the damp, gray concrete wall behind her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a terror that ripped through the screen and clawed at Elara’s throat. Pinned to the front of her familiar denim jacket was a piece of paper, a child-like drawing scrawled in thick black marker: a butcher’s cleaver.

Rico Vargas.

The air left Elara’s lungs in a silent scream. The abstraction of the war had just become brutally, intimately real. This wasn't about territory or supply chains anymore. This was a message, sent directly to her. Vargas wasn't just fighting Julian; he was fighting smart. He had found Julian’s only weakness, the one asset he couldn't hide or replace: his pet curator. Her cage had not protected her; it had made her a target, and in doing so, it had made Chloe one, too.

A frantic, useless litany of options raced through her mind. The police? What would she say? ‘My benevolent crime lord captor is in a gang war and the other guys kidnapped my friend’? They would think she was insane. She had no proof, no access to the outside world, no credibility. She was legally an employee of the Sterling Corporation, living in company housing. By all official measures, her life was perfect.

The truth was a cold, hard stone in her gut. There was only one person in the world with the power to get Chloe back. One person who had a vested interest in striking back at Rico Vargas. One person she had sworn she would never, ever truly cooperate with.

She found him in the penthouse’s small, climate-controlled conservatory, where he was tending to a collection of rare orchids. He was humming softly, using a tiny pair of silver scissors to snip away a dead leaf. He looked serene, gentle, a picture of peaceful domesticity. The contrast with the savage image burned into her mind made her physically ill.

This was it. The final surrender. To save Chloe, she had to do more than just play along. She had to actively participate. She had to take the beautiful, intricate puzzle of her captivity and willingly snap the final piece into place.

“Julian,” she said. Her voice was a dry, rasping thing.

He turned, a bright, welcoming smile gracing his features. “Elara! Just in time. Do you see this Phalaenopsis? The variegation on the leaves is a sign of perfect humidity. It’s a happy plant.”

She didn’t look at the orchid. She held out the tablet, her hand shaking so violently the screen was a blur. “They have my friend.”

Julian’s smile vanished. He took the tablet, his expression instantly shifting from placid hobbyist to focused executive. He studied the image, his jaw tightening. The pleasant warmth in his eyes was replaced by a cold, analytical light.

“Rico Vargas,” he stated, his voice flat. “This is… unspeakably rude.” He looked from the picture of Chloe to Elara’s terrified face. He saw her desperation, her shattered composure, the silent, pleading terror in her eyes.

And then, something extraordinary happened. The coldness in his eyes didn't ignite into rage. It melted away, replaced by a look of profound, empathetic sorrow. He saw her pain, and it wounded him. He stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on her arm. His touch was gentle, proprietary.

“Oh, Elara,” he murmured, his voice softening into the comforting baritone he used when he was being his most sincere, his most angelic. “This is my fault. I’ve been so focused on the strategic necessities of this… cleanup, I failed to secure our most important asset. You. And by extension, those you care about. This man has hurt you. He has brought his ugliness into our home and used it to cause you pain.”

He was framing it perfectly in his mind. This wasn’t a tactical move by a rival. This was a personal attack on him, through her. An attack on the peaceful, orderly world he was trying to build.

Elara couldn’t speak. She could only stare at him, her entire world hanging on his response.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” she finally whispered, the words tasting like poison and defeat. “I have no one. You’re the only one who can…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Who can help?” he finished for her, and his face transformed.

It was like the sun breaking through the clouds. The sorrow vanished, replaced by a radiant, beatific glow. His eyes lit up with a fervent, righteous zeal. This was not the reluctant acceptance of a grim task. This was sheer, unadulterated joy. He was being asked to be the hero. She, the woman of integrity and goodness, was finally turning to him, her protector, her champion. His entire twisted worldview, his entire perception of himself as a benevolent force for good, was being validated in the most powerful way imaginable.

“Of course, I’ll help,” he said, his voice ringing with a purpose that was terrifying to behold. “Of course! Elara, that’s what friends are for! To protect each other! To stand up to bullies and villains who would bring harm to innocent people!”

He was ecstatic. He was practically vibrating with the thrill of it. He had been given the perfect quest, the perfect damsel to save, the perfect dragon to slay. He wasn't just a businessman cleaning up the competition anymore. He was a knight, riding to the rescue.

He squeezed her arm gently, his smile bright and full of terrible promise. “Don’t you worry about a thing. We are going to get your friend back. And we are going to teach Mr. Vargas a very important lesson about friendship, and about messing with things that belong to me.”

He strode out of the conservatory, already pulling out his phone, his voice a cheerful, booming command. “Sergei! Assemble the teams. All of them. Change of plans. We’re moving from spring cleaning to a full-scale angelic intervention.”

Elara stood alone among the silent, perfect orchids, her legs giving way beneath her. She sank to the floor, gasping for air. She had done it. She had saved Chloe. To do so, she had pointed a demon toward a devil and begged him to become a god. She had just unleashed the Angel’s Rampage.