The noise coming from the bottom brought Adriel back from the trip down the memory lane and made him focus on what was actually going on. The tumultuous crowd was gathering more and more people, somehow still unspotted by the police. The ex-Commander often wondered how stupid must people be not to notice such a huge event going on just under their eyes. Like, how can you not see nearly a thousand, quite specific people, standing in one place? Because racers were outstanding. Their manners, ways of speaking, behaviour. This stupid courage that often crossed the line and became pure recklessness. And they showed it not only at the course but in everyday life as well. And their appearance? Brightly-died hair, weird haircuts, tons of earrings and loads of leather and black clothes. Everything covered in their pride.

Police failed yet, Adriel was already able to clap his eyes on few potential racers right away. How young were they, and yet how willing to die? How meaningless their lives were, so to make them count they started taking part in events like this? How dead inside could they feel? Because there was no single race that didn't end in someone's violent death. Whether was it due to after-race arguments about the prize, mistakes made on the road, typical mob or personal fights or gunfight. No matter the way, it always somehow happened. And it was the best way to go. Nearly considered a "Viking's" death. Because dying on the road meant dying during battle, during making the most of their life. And they died in most glorious way possible. Not by an old age, not by overdosing, not by a car accident, not by suicide. They went down fighting and kicking and screaming like a true human being should. At least in their opinion.

Adriel never in his life has made a complaint about it. He loved watching what he could never achieve. There was something mesmerising in their pursuit after death. And he couldn't tell whether was it due to his own lack of mortality or due to some puzzling magic, yet he never even thought about leaving those people. He never cared for them, don't get his ambitions and goals wrong. If he ever did, he could just go there and save them, just seconds before they crashed. They would call it a miracle, and well, they wouldn't be wrong. But doing so felt wrong to Adriel. He knew that by saving them, he would rip them off the chance of entering gates of motor-racing Walhalla. Plus, in his opinion, he had every right to consider them weaker and inferior to him. He has been alive for more than four thousand years. He had the knowledge they could only dream of. His battle skills were more than remarkable. He has seen way more than he wanted to. He served and deserted. Yet, he wanted to be like them. He craved for their mortality so much, that sometimes even he couldn't understand himself.

That's why he felt so good when being surrounded by them. That's why he died his hair neon green and kept his hair in a short mohawk while having sides of his head shaved. That's why he became almost inseparable with his leather, black jacket that had a special mark on it's back. A reminder of times, when he missed Heaven and his troop so much that he started a motorcycle gang because sitting there, being their leader, was the closest feeling he could get to command his own heavenly troop. That time was long, almost forgotten in his memory. He allowed himself to love those people. To consider them "his" people. He even allowed himself to forget about their mortality. And that's what hurt him the most. Their deaths. They were dying in various ways. Some of them of old age, wondering why he never aged even for a day, when he sat by them, holding their hands and promising them it will be okay, that they don't have to worry about their souls. Some of them died in accidents or gunshots. And they were so proud of themselves. They welcomed every single day like it was supposed to be their last and they greeted death and the devil himself even before making themselves a breakfast.

Those young racers reminded Adriel of his friends. They were so alike that Adriel was sure that if he only allows himself to get attached, he will love them in the same way. That's why he wanted to keep his distance. That's why he didn't try to save them. He simply knew better. And even though his mind told him one thing, his heart gagged to be like one of them. Adriel sighed heavily and with the biggest smile on his face, he showed a middle finger to the skies. There was another, hidden reason, why he surrounded himself with those people. Even though he deserted, he still was an angel. Wingless one, of course, as he cut his wings the day he walked on Earth for the first time, yet still an angel. His holy vibes were so huge, they could be spotted from Heaven in a second. But those people? Heaven crossed their names out of lists of people who could get to it. They were too filthy, too devious, too risky. They didn't match Heaven's perfect picture. And that's why their vibes were as filthy as Heaven considered them to be filthy. And that covered Adriel's marks without any problem. Especially in such huge and numerous groups.

Nevertheless, Adriel still didn't know whether Heaven will look for him or not. Sure, he should be killed due to his desertion, yet he was too high on the hierarchy for most angels to kill. They lacked power. But the Hunt for deserters ended a long time ago. It was time to hunt for Nephilims and Adriel kept himself as fucking far possible, as he could, from Nephilims. His skills though could be of a great advantage fo Heaven. He could track Nephilims down like animals. He was the best in such kind of things. Maybe his skills were even more important than his crimes. Maybe he could be forgiven and taken back to serve as Commander. But that was the last thing he could ever want. He sought peace for himself and he didn't want to lose it due to some "higher purposes". It would be better for everyone if Heaven just forgot him.

Adriel stood up and flicked the ash and dirt of his trousers. He could jump off that window. He would be in the crowd in a second, but that would bring an unnecessary attention to him. He wanted to take part in that race. He felt his blood going heated in his veins. He wanted to win.