Ch. 7
The dark Los Angeles streets give way to starlight.
Jenny's soul drifts through a celestial tunnel — endless, shimmering, unreal. Azrael floats ahead of her with one hand holding her in tow, the other holding up his scythe — silent, wings unfurled. Even though he has no face — just darkness where his features were supposed to be — she can feel his attention on her, cold and ancient. Neither of them speak as they fly forward.
Then suddenly, light.
A golden gate emerges before them, suspended in air. Beyond it, the clouds glow white and gray — silver winds curling upward like smoke. Beneath it all, a soft but deafening hum, like a choir made of stars.
At the gate stands a figure.
He is towering and strange — part man, part beast, radiant and intimidating all at once. He has the head of a lion, eyes blazing with golden flame. His muscular body is humanoid, wrapped in tiger-like stripes. Massive wings rise from his back, and at his side hung a silver sword sheathed in ivory. His feet were claws.
"Who's that?" Jenny asks.
"Michael," Azrael says, his tone more formal now than it was when they both met in the street. "Michael the Defender. Gatekeeper of Heaven. A Seraphim. My brother."
"Brother?" Jenny asks, confused.
Michael steps forward, his paw-like feet pressing into the clouds. "Azrael," he says, his voice deep and resonant — like thunder behind a locked door. "You're late... again."
"She resisted," Azrael replies.
"Not many do," Michael says, looking Jenny up and down. "Most mortals know what they are before they arrive here."
Azrael shrugs.
"Well alright," Azrael says, relaxed. "I've gotta get back to work. It was good seeing you bro, tell Dad I said hi."
Azrael turns toward Jenny.
"Oh yeah and good luck Jenny."
His faceless head simply nods at both of them in farewell. Then he vanishes, folding back into the dark between realms. Jenny watches him go, and then the dread she feels in her soul heightens. She turns back to face Michael.
Michael looks at Jenny, staring daggers into her soul. "Do you know why you're here?"
Jenny's mouth feels dry. "Azrael told me."
"And do you think you'll be okay?"
She hesitates. "…I don't know."
Michael studies her. "Then let's find out." He gestures toward the gate.
Heaven's throne room does not resemble any cathedral or temple Jenny had ever imagined. It was vast — no, immense — in both size and gravity. A full cosmos hung within its walls. Stars orbited slowly above her. Light bent unnaturally, curling along the edges of invisible lines.
And at the center, atop a throne made up of tiny golden celestial creatures linked together stoically — as if this is the only purpose they have — sat God.
He was enormous — not just tall, but heavy with presence. His white robe shimmered like starlight draped in silk. His feet were bare, His hands perfectly human. But His head…
His head was fire.
A living flame where a face should've been — swirling, shifting in color. Gold at first, then flickering toward red as His attention focused on her.
Jenny freezes.
"Is that—"
"Yes", Michael says. "That's Him."
Michael stepped aside. Jenny stood alone before the throne.
"Young Lady," God says, his voice deep like thunder and causing the stars around them to change colors. "Behold!"
Then comes the visions.
Everything.
Her sins unfold before her like a courtroom montage.
She sees herself, detached and venomous — firing a crying intern. The phone call with her sister. Firing Sable. Laughing after cutting a thousand jobs. Then — the crash. The impact. Dorothy Watkins.
Jenny falls to her knees and weeps hysterically, for the first time in her life understanding the weight of who she is and what she has done.
God's voice is thunderous — it is truth, vibrating through bone and blood. His head flame burning at a bright crimson.
"You abandoned the only family you had. You wielded power without compassion. You killed an innocent woman without consequence."
Jenny can't speak.
"You will spend eternity in Hell."
She gasps, tears falling. "Please, no!"
"There is no mercy for the unrepentant," God says, before standing from his throne and pointing at the door. "Take her away!"
Michael grabs her by the shoulder pulling her away. Jenny resists.
"I am repentant!" she cries. "I didn't know what I was doing. I thought I had to be strong. My dad raised me to win at all costs. To be ruthless. I didn't even know how to feel anymore."
She continues, wiping her tears. "I never got to be a kid. I was told to dominate, to lead, to destroy weakness. So I did. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do."
Her hands trembled. "I know I was awful. But please… I want to change."
Jenny looks squarely at God, knees still on the ground, her resolve burning. Her tears turning to strength. She's argues with God like He's an investor about to back out of a deal.
"I can change."
God pauses. Then, his head flame changes from crimson, to violet. Then… to blue.
God sits back down on his throne.
"You carry guilt," he says. His heart moved by her speech. "You speak with honesty, finally. And still… you are not owed redemption."
Jenny bows her head, bracing for the final blow.
"But you may earn it."
She looks up, eyes widening.
"You will return to the world," God says, "as my instrument. A shadow of justice. You will protect the city you once poisoned with your power. You will walk the boundary between life and death, between Earth and the Celestial Realms. You will become... The Wraith."
Jenny raises an eyebrow. "The Wraith?"
He nods, his head-flame changing from blue to violet. "There are supernatural forces brewing in Los Angeles — that so-called City of Angels — dark, ancient things hiding beneath the surface. My angels cannot act freely in your world. But you can."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then your fate is sealed, and my initial pronouncement will hold. You will be condemned."
Jenny clenches her fists, rising shakily to her feet. "Then send me back."
"Very well then my daughter," God said. "Very few get this offer. But I see something in you — a fire. A light."
Jenny flashes a big pearly white smile.
"Do not fret! You will not be alone. One of my children will walk beside you. A guardian. She will find you."
He raises His hand.
Light pours over her, as she drops back to Earth.
5:00am.
Jenny gasps. Air — real, cold air — floods her lungs. She is trapped in a body bag. Fluorescent lights. Screams. Jenny begins punching her way out of the bag.
"Get me out of here!" Jenny demands, her voice muffled.
The forensic analysts assigned to her corpse, both women, look at each other in shock.
"I'm gonna open it," one of them says anxiously before unzipping the bag, but before she can Jenny's fist tears through the bag, before pulling her arm back in and ripping the bag open with her bare hands.
Jenny struggles, gasping, clad only in her bra and panties.
"WHAT THE—SHE'S ALIVE!" the other worker screamed, backing into the wall.
Jenny bursts halfway out, gasping — and then immediately yanks herself back down, realizing with horror she's half-naked. She pulls what's left of the body bag towards herself.
"Where are my clothes?"
The woman who was pinned to the wall runs out of the room screaming. The other remains standing, absolutely stunned.
"I... I'll grab them for you Ms. Price." The woman runs out of the room. Jenny gets up there, and sits on the gurney, her legs dangling — confused but grateful to be alive.
A few moments later, the analyst returns with a plastic bag of folded clothes. She hands them to Jenny, her hand shaking.
"Thanks," Jenny says looking her directly in the eyes.
The analyst runs back out, screaming. Jenny dresses quickly behind a privacy curtain, before walking out of the room.
5:45am.
The world goes insane.
"CEO of Price Corp. Resurrected After Fatal Crash."
"Murderer Lives Again — Divine Intervention or Medical Error?"
Jenny walks out of the morgue, fully clothed. Her purse in hand. The moment her feet touch the concrete steps, she is pounced on by journalists. Outside, the street was chaos. Cameras. Reporters. Dozens of voices.
"Ms. Price! Did you fake your death?"
"Do you believe in miracles?"
"Do you feel remorse for Dorothy Watkins? How do you feel now that you're a murderer?"
Jenny shoves through them, keeping her head down.
"I just want to go home," she mutters sheepishly.
Jenny walks up the street. Alone, aimless. Still processing everything. No longer knowing who she is or where she's going. Then — a screech of tires. A white car pulls to the curb. The window rolls down.
A pale woman with bright pink hair and piercing gray eyes looks at her. There was something too perfect about her features — not just beautiful but also unnaturally symmetrical. No wrinkles, no blemishes, just perfection — as if she stopped aging after her twenty-fifth birthday. Her outfit is simple: Brown bomber jacket, over a white t-shirt with the words "God's Favorite Angel printed on it in black". Simple blue jeans and brown boots.
"Need a ride?" the woman asks in a posh Londoner accent, like she was a member of The Royal Family. Her tone was calm and pleasant. Almost… knowing.
Jenny blinks. "Who the hell are you?"
The woman doesn't answer. Instead, she smiles, as a golden cross glows on her forehead — accompanied by a soft hum.
And at the same moment, Jenny's eyes glow purple.
Images. Visions. The throne. Azrael's scythe. Michael's burning gaze. Her death. Her rebirth.
Then — a vision of herself: bluish-gray skin, pitch-black hair, body wrapped in black. A purple cloak draped over her shoulders, around her neck, and over her head — purple eyes glowing like sapphire.
It all starts to make sense.
Jenny looks at the woman again. "You're her," she whispers. "The guardian He promised."
The woman smiles again and nods.
"Let's not waste any more time Jennifer," the woman says, her voice warm and maternal — like she's know her forever. "Let's go, before those journalists return."
Jenny sighs, pulling the door. However, she pulls on the door a bit too hard and unhinges it. Jenny holds the door in her hand and lifts it up into the air effortlessly. She stares at the woman, stunned — holding the door like a giant piece of plastic fruit. "Help?" her eyes beg.
"It's fine," the woman says, laughing. "Come in. Toss it in the floor."
Jenny tosses the door on the ground like a piece of refuse, its glass window cracking. She awkwardly steps into the vehicle. Another passenger door materializes from thin air. The old one vanishes.
"What the—"
"It's okay!" The woman laughs. "I'll explain everything once we get to your house."
"I'll give you my address," Jenny offers, still breathless from everything that has just happened.
"No need," the woman replies. "I already know."
The car pulls away into the early morning darkness, leaving the noise behind. Jenny stares out the window — unsure if she was alive, dead, or something entirely new. She places her hand on her chest — her heart is not beating, and she is suddenly no longer breathing. Yet, she is… alive. Awake. Conscious.
Or is she?