Angel feels the weight of it, every moment of his undead existence.

The weight of every life he's ended.

He feels the number resting upon his shoulders, a number beyond the hundreds and well into the thousands. He sees them in the evening when first he wakes, and he sees them at sunrise before he closes his weary eyes. He remembers their screams and pleads, their tears, his laughter. He remembers their blood.

And every day since his soul's return – the second time, that is — he has fought to redeem himself. Today would be no exception, but for the silver cuff encircling his wrist and the red paint encircling the arena.


Not just red paint, now – red blood, too.

His, theirs.

The champion's face warps, his teeth elongating into his fangs, his warm brown eyes shifting to the cold gold eyes of a predator. He twists his opponent's arm, using the demon's own knife to kill him. Hot blood gushes down between them, staining the floor, staining Angel's hands.

Yeah, Angel feels the weight. And it just keeps getting heavier.