Blood dripped from beneath the frayed sleeves of the boy’s dark blue hoodie. The hood and his messy black hair hid the bruises on his face from the casual observer. And no one in Tokyo thinks to look twice.

When he entered the building, the city’s bustle came to an abrupt halt. Machines whirred and spat out papers; an office worker cursed when the fax transmission came out wrong. More office workers clicked away on their keyboards or spoke into their headsets to direct customers. A woman in a crisp suit approached the boy. “Welcome to Futures Incorporated. How may I be of assistance?”

The boy croaked out, “Roof.”

“You wish to go to the rooftop? Of course. Take the elevator down the hall and to your right, and please enjoy the view—but be careful, the mesh fence has been taken down for repair. I advise you to stay away from the edge.”

The boy was already dragging his feet down the hall, his broken sneakers squeaking against the marble floor. The elevator seemed to take forever, the tinny music buffering every few seconds. Finally, he arrived at the fortieth floor and climbed up to the roof.

The wind blew his hood back. His black hair flew wildly around his bruised face. A single tear streaked down his blue-and-white skin, cast orange from the setting sun. Akihabara looked beautiful in the sunset, as buildings and skyscrapers became meaningless silhouettes and a vivid orange sky glared at the people like an angel passing judgment.

The boy stepped to the edge, closed his eyes, and let himself fall. Let an angel pass judgment on him now.

The angel chose mercy—don’t angels always? The boy thought he had died, as he hovered at the halfway point between the top of the high-rise and the unforgiving asphalt below. He stared into the wide red eyes of a petite white-haired fairy-like girl clad in ivory and gold.

“Kakehashi Mirai,” the fairy reported in a high-pitched voice, “age seventeen, high school student, third year. Lived with his abusive uncle and aunt for almost ten years. Attempted suicide on September 23. Triggering event—a particularly nasty fight with his uncle over inheritance. Did I get that right?”

Before Mirai could reply, the fairy giggled and said, “Of course I got it right. I’m Nasse, Angel of Purity, and angels can only speak the truth.”

Angels can only… “If you’re an angel,” Mirai murmured, his dark eyes flickering around them, “does that mean I’m dead?”

Nasse giggled. “Of course not, silly. Look below you; there’s no messy body causing passersby to scream or take pictures—how strange it is, to want to memorialize something as commonplace as death. No, Mirai, you’re flying. You have wings like me now.”

As though to prove her point, Nasse fluttered her feathery white wings, which looked too small to actually support a person’s weight. By instinct, Mirai willed himself to follow, though he didn’t think he had wings. To his astonishment, he lifted several feet into the sky, and large white feathers drifted around him.

He turned to see his reflection in a window of the high-rise. In stark contrast to his dark clothes and hair, a pair of colossal white wings spread on either side, each wing spanning more than two arm’s lengths. Mirai clapped a hand over his mouth in shock.

Nasse glanced up at him with concern. “Do you have a fear of heights? Or do you not like flying in general? Because as a god candidate, that would be very unfortunate.”

Mirai tore his gaze away from his eerie reflection to stare down at Nasse. “What did you say?”

“It would be very unfortunate,” Nasse repeated, “if you became the next God but couldn’t even look down upon the world in your power.”

…

That day, over 2,000 people attempted suicide. And thirteen were saved by angels.

Angels are not nearly as noble as Mirai thought. They stood by and watched from Heaven as millions suffered, and they only intervened in their own interest.

The old god was dying, and he promised unfathomable glory to the angel who selected his successor. Thirteen angels of various ranks had the privilege of each selecting one candidate. And Nasse had chosen Mirai.

“Why?” Mirai asked, the tips of his wings fluttering in the wind as he soared above the world. Cities blurred below, then mountainous landscapes, and soon, he was flying over the ocean. He could glimpse sea monsters churning and floundering in a too-shallow ocean, creatures with jaws that gaped wide open in a soundless scream and tentacles that splayed on the water to create cyclones before strangling the beasts themselves. “Why me?”

Nasse smiled at him, matching his flight despite her smaller size. “Because I like you. And I liked your family. And you deserve to be happy.”

“Countless other people are more deserving than me.” He gestured to the continent below, rife with riots and refugees and people just struggling to go by.

“Well, I think you deserve happiness. And if it assures you, some of those people are god candidates too. I can sense their angels—Seraphim and even Ophanim like me.”

“Seraphim are the angel warriors,” Mirai recalled. “What are Ophanim?”

Nasse’s wide scarlet eyes glimmered in the growing sunlight; evening in Japan meant morning here. “A race far greater and more monstrous than anything silly little humankind can comprehend.” She flicked his hair playfully. “My true appearance would destroy your tiny mind, so I’ve taken on the form of a cute girl. Do you like it?”

Mirai didn’t answer her. As they flew over the Middle East and its ravaged lands and poverty-stricken people, he asked, “What about them? They need more help.”

Nasse giggled. “We don’t choose candidates based on something as basic as need. No, Mirai, to be a god, one must have known true despair.”

“So there are probably a few others like me in those places too.” Satisfied, Mirai landed back on the high-rise where he had tried to take his own life. “Let’s say one of us becomes the next God. What happens to the rest of us, Nasse?”

“The rest of silly little humankind goes about their lives as though nothing happened—unless the new God makes something happen, or lets us angels play. Fires, plagues, wars that form a riveting narrative—those are always fun. But as for the rest of the god candidates?” Nasse tipped her head to one side. “In ninety-nine days, they will perish and cannot enter Heaven or Hell, becoming gods of death if not of the universe.”

Mirai swallowed. “And the angels?”

“Angels are stagnant beings. We are eternal and unchanging. I’ve heard legends of angels rising in rank, but it hasn’t happened in over ten thousand years, so I think they’re only legends. Right? So we have nothing to lose, but you,” Nasse smiled as she suppressed a giggle, “you have everything.”

You have everything. Mirai thought of the world-spanning sunset, midnight, and sunrise he had flown through. He thought of the beautiful city he’d almost left behind. And he thought of small kindnesses even in the poorest places, of a woman in rags giving a piece of bread—the only food she had—to a child even skinnier than her. Why be a god and risk your soul when you could be a human and find happiness here? Mirai’s bruises and injuries were gone. Even if they returned when Mirai relinquished his wings, he had seen the world. He could never throw it away again.

“You can have the wings back. I don’t want to be God.”

Nasse flinched. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes. What’s wrong? You don’t have anything to lose, like you said, while I’d rather not die and become a shinigami.”

The angel wrung her hands in front of her. “I—I’m sorry. It’s too late. If you give up your candidate status and return everything I gave you, you’ll still end up with the same fate as if you died trying to be God.”

Mirai remembered with sudden clarity a magical girl anime that had taken a dark spin: the girls received their powers by unwittingly letting an alien monster rip out their souls. And there was no going back. He covered his face with one hand, grimacing. “What did you do to me?”

Nasse smiled. “I saved you. Aw, don’t look so glum, Mirai. You’ll feel better when you see what else I gave you. Come, let’s go home.”

“It’s not really home.” Mirai led Nasse to the house where he stayed. It was quieter than he was used to, his cousins having moved only a month ago to study abroad. An old-school TV buzzed with static as his uncle snored on the sofa, foreign football players larger than life brawling it out in front of him. Empty beer cans lay around the sofa. Mirai bent to pick up the sticky remote from among the garbage and turned off the TV.

In the abrupt silence, he could now clearly hear his aunt yelling at someone on the phone. Her high heels punctuated the rotting wood—they were probably the only Japanese family that kept their shoes on in the house—but she paused when she saw Mirai. She didn’t react to Nasse, who giggled and flitted above the beer cans. “No, you shut up, Kai. I’ll call you back later.” She hung up, cutting Kai off mid-sentence, and glared at Mirai. “You’re out past curfew, kid.”

Mirai opened his mouth to respond, but Nasse cut him off. “Hold out your right hand like you’re going to grab something from above. Straighten your fingers. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

A red diamond rotated, spinning faster and faster like a drill, the tip pointed at Mirai’s aunt. She couldn’t see the celestial object—the way sea monsters remained invisible to ordinary humans—but the incarnadine gem reflected in her dark eyes. “What are you doing, Mirai?”

“Shoot her.”

Before Mirai could resist, the red diamond zapped through the air, faster than a bullet. Mirai’s aunt’s face slackened.

Mirai winced. “What did I do to her?”

Nasse couldn’t stop giggling. Her voice sounded like a silver bell as she managed to squeak, “She’s all peaceful now. This is the Red Arrow’s power. Try saying something to her, Mirai.”

Mirai cleared his throat. “Hello? Auntie?”

Nasse’s laughter came out in small bursts. “Auntie—humans have such silly words.”

Mirai’s aunt smiled politely. “Yes, Mirai?”

Mirai blinked. He wasn’t used to such civility from his aunt. “How… how was your day?”

“It was uneventful. Kai’s being a bastard, as usual. How about you?”

Nasse yawned. “Ask her something interesting. Like your inheritance.”

“Auntie…” Mirai ignored Nasse’s giggling. “Can I have my inheritance?”

His aunt blinked. “Of course. It’s yours.” She went on her phone and then informed him, “I returned the will to how it should have been. When you turn eighteen in January, it’ll be transferred directly to your account.”

She sounded calmer, almost robotic. It soothed Mirai. “Thank you, Auntie.”

“You don’t need to thank her,” Nasse commented at the same time as his aunt said, “You don’t need to thank me, Mirai. My husband and I were horrible trustees. We squandered that stolen money.”

Nasse poked Mirai. “Ask her who the money was stolen from.”

Mirai looked at the angel. “She stole it from me, obviously.”

The woman shook her head. “That came later. We stole it from your parents first.”

“How?” Mirai demanded at the same time as Nasse said, “Ask her—oh, you just did.”

Mirai’s aunt hung her head in shame. “My husband and I, we were greedy. We had just enough money to send our kids to America, but not enough for my husband’s drinking addiction. He made me rig your parents’ car. We knew your parents were planning a family trip for months…”

Mirai closed his eyes. He remembered that day as vividly as if it had been yesterday.

…

TEN YEARS AGO

“Beach! Beach! Beach!” Mirai and his twin brother piped. While Mirai had black hair and dark eyes like midnight, Akira’s red-brown hair and russet eyes reflected the dawn.

Akira unwrapped a package of rice crackers and began to munch on them, crumbs falling onto the blanket over his lap. Their mother tucked a strand of blue-black hair behind an ear and smiled at their father. “It’ll be good to get away from the Kira nonsense for a while.”

Their father gently shushed her, casting a concerned glance at the kids. Mirai shrugged. “All the kids in our class talk about Kira. I don’t care about him; he doesn’t scare me!”

Akira mumbled, his mouth full of cracker, “I hate Kira.”

Mirai nudged him. “Only ‘cause our classmates make fun of you for having a name that sounds like his.”

Akira bristled. “It’s A-kira, not Kira! ‘Kira’ isn’t even his real name! It’s so unfair.”

Mirai ruffled his younger twin brother’s hair. “You think everything is unfair, Aki.”

Their parents chattered about the seaside restaurants to look forward to. As their mother leaned over the glove compartment to peck their father’s cheek, he fumbled with the car keys. “Sweetheart,” he protested affectionately.

Akira stuck out his tongue in mock disgust, then licked a few stray crumbs on his lips. Mirai’s family enjoyed eating out, but Mirai was mostly looking forward to swimming in the ocean.

“The life jackets!” he exclaimed. He and Akira weren’t strong swimmers, so his parents bought life jackets just in case, especially since tides could be unpredictable. “We almost forgot them.”

His mother handed him the house key. “Be quick, okay?”

Akira tugged on Mirai’s short sleeve. “Want me to come with you?”

Mirai glanced at the crumb-covered blanket over Akira’s lap and shook his head. “I’ll be right back.”

He twirled the house key around a chubby finger, but he had barely taken a few steps out of the family sedan before the car and his world exploded.

…

Back in the present, Mirai struggled to breathe. His back burned with the old injury. He had almost died with his family back then, and there had been many times when he wished he had. Then he wished he let Akira come with him so he wouldn’t be alone. And then he cursed himself for his selfishness; it was better that Akira didn’t have to suffer under their abusive relatives. But why do I have to suffer? he’d ask himself. There must be a reason I survived when no one else did. If God existed, then He must have had a great destiny planned for Mirai; if Kira was as powerful as he claimed, then Mirai would see justice. But no criminals were punished, and for years, Mirai believed it had been an unfortunate accident. Or maybe Kira was dead—after all, no other criminals were dying of heart attacks. And Mirai had stopped believing in gods.

Until now.

Mirai glared down at his aunt. “You should have died too.”

His aunt gazed up at him expectantly. “Should I kill myself?”

Disgust churned in Mirai’s stomach, even as Nasse giggled and tried to goad him into letting the killer atone. “That’s not atonement,” Mirai said. “That’s cowardice. You need to turn yourself in to the police and face justice.”

She nodded. “I will.” And then she walked out of the house, into the night, to turn herself in.

Mirai stared after her in amazement. “The Red Arrow brings people back to goodness, doesn’t it?”

Nasse giggled. “Want to try it with your uncle too?”

Mirai picked his way across the scattered beer cans and stretched out his hand. The Red Arrow began to spin.

Nasse placed a slim ivory hand over his own. “How about you try the other hand, Mirai? The White Arrow has fantastic powers worth exploring too.”

The White Arrow rotated in the opposite direction—counterclockwise instead of clockwise—and thrummed with an energy that fascinated Mirai. “What exactly does it do?”

“It’s more fun to find out for yourself, silly.”

Before Mirai could resist, he let the White Arrow fly. His uncle woke up an instant before the radiant diamond struck his heart. His eyes met Mirai’s for that split instant. It went by too fast for Mirai to register his expression, but he’d later imagine seeing fear, guilt—regret. Then the man gasped and foamed at the mouth, shuddering before stilling. His blank eyes stared into nothingness. His pot belly ceased to move with breaths. When Mirai checked for a pulse, he found nothing.

Mirai yelled in horror and staggered backward. “What happened to him? What did I do? What did you make me do?”

“I didn’t make you do anything, silly.”

Mirai glared up at Nasse. She looked a few years younger than him, but he couldn’t afford to forget that she was part of the Ophanim, the highest-ranking angels. “Tell me the truth, Nasse. What do the Red and White Arrows do?”

Nasse tapped his right hand, her skin neither warm nor cold. “The sparkly Red Arrow takes away a person’s free will. Seraphim grant both Red Arrows and wings to their chosen candidates, while Cherubim grant only one.” She tapped his left hand next, and he shivered, stifling the White Arrow. “Meanwhile, this shiny White Arrow takes away a person’s life. Only Ophanim can grant White Arrows to our favorite people, along with wings and Red Arrows—the whole package deal, yum!”

Mirai grimaced.

Nasse explained, “Both free will and life were given to humankind by a previous god, so it makes sense that they can be returned; the old god definitely thought ahead by including a gift receipt!”

“And you… angels play with humanity by shooting Arrows at us?”

“Oh, no. These are forbidden powers. Only god candidates can use them, but they don’t work on angels or other god candidates. Or the current God, of course. You keep the wings but lose the Arrows when you become God. Didn’t I tell you? The old god definitely thought ahead.” Nasse tipped her head to one side. “Previous god candidates who became shinigami came up with their own way of keeping the Red and White Arrows. But I think you already knew that. Right?”

I hate Kira, Mirai could hear Akira declaring. But instead of the innocent seven-year-old who had been annoyed that his name sounded similar to a world-renowned serial killer, Mirai heard the voice of a bitter 17-year-old, resigned at life’s awfulness and terrified of these forbidden powers. It was Akira’s voice, if his brother had lived. It was his own voice.

Mirai turned away from Nasse and the corpse to report his dead uncle. Heart attacks were uncommon in Japan—that was how Kira had gained notoriety, after all—but his uncle had been unhealthy enough that it wouldn’t seem suspicious. He glanced at the time on his phone. Midnight.

Nasse peeked over his shoulder and giggled. “In ninety-eight days, you’ll be a god either way.”

Mirai held up his hands. The Arrows were weightless but weighed on him. “I don’t want these powers.”

“Then you’ll want to be God.”

…

ONE MONTH LATER

A young, white-haired man strolled down the cobblestone streets of Ireland. Below the orange, white, and green-striped flags and among the colorfully clad people spilling out of various pubs, the black feathers of his dark leather jacket made him stand out. His heavy combat boots crunched over the uneven stones, and metal chains at his waist and sleeves clinked as he moved. And most of all, his mask boggled the people. He wore a full face mask that gave his skin a sickly, grayish appearance—studded collars and leather gloves concealed his neck and hands—and two round eyes bugged out in opposite directions. It looked both creepy and comical.

The passersby pointed at him and laughed, and then the laughter turned to panic as they recognized him. They couldn’t see the tall ivory-and-gold woman behind him, her face marred with blood that dripped from two empty eye sockets, but the person in front of them was frightening enough.

The eyeless angel asked in a low, mellifluous voice, “Can you understand them?”

He replied in Japanese, “Their English is lazier and less formal than what I studied at school, but I can understand them well enough.” He smirked behind his mask as one name kept being repeated. “And anyone can understand ‘Neo Kira’.”

A couple of brawny men tried to tackle him, but he dodged. White feathers drifted down, invisible as they mingled with the black feathers these humans could see. It was said that Neo Kira could move at ultrasonic speeds, could teleport, could fly. Now they could see for themselves it was all true.

“Don’t be afraid of me—not now, anyway,” Neo Kira said in perfect English as he flew over the drunkards. He felt like a prince among peasants; he would be a god among men. “I’m looking for someone specific. If you can direct me to him, I’ll spare your petty lives—for now, anyway.”

The men bowed to him and groveled for their lives. They would do anything. With the power in Neo Kira’s right hand, they would. But he didn’t need to bother. The glint of an engraved platinum ring caught his eye. Maybe he’d bother after all.

…

“Felipe Amor,” Neo Kira pronounced, appreciating the feel of the name. He stared down at the naked man in the alley, surrounded by women who draped themselves over him like shields of flesh. He didn’t care about any of them; if anything, Felipe and his mindless lovers repulsed him. “You’ve been drawing attention to yourself.” He spun the engraved platinum ring on the back of his gloved hand. “How is it that a D-list celebrity suddenly has A-list idols from all across Europe going on their hands and knees for him? All of this in the weeks after thirteen angels descended on Earth.” He slapped his ring down so it lay flat, sandwiched between his palm and his hand.

Felipe grinned. “So Neo Kira is like me.”

“I am nothing like you.”

“We both have them fancy Red Arrows, nay? I thought there must be others like me.”

“You thought.” The bugged-out eyes remained motionless, but behind the mask, Neo Kira’s own eyes darted around until he found Felipe’s angel, picking his non-existent nails while stifling a yawn. Neo Kira held up the platinum ring, admiring the engraving. On the outside, it read, Better to reign in Hell. And on the inside: Better still to reign from Heaven. “What do you think, Meyza?”

“I think it is a beautiful ring.”

“About Felipe, you daft creature.”

“I think he is a beautiful man.”

“I think he’s hideous.”

Felipe burst out in wet laughter. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me. You took your damn sweet time, and now I’ll make you submit to me like these women.” He licked his lips. “I usually don’t swing that way, but I can make an exception for the infamous Neo Kira, nay?” He raised his right hand, summoning the Red Arrow.

Neo Kira grabbed the diamond. It sliced his glove and burned through the leather, scalding his hand, but he didn’t flinch. “Didn’t your angel tell you, Amor? Arrows don’t work on other god candidates.”

Felipe looked at his angel with betrayal. “Luta!”

Luta rolled his eyes and his non-existent sleeves. “Let’s get this over with.”

Felipe turned his panicked gaze toward Neo Kira and pulled the women closer to him as though they calmed him. “How are you gonna kill me without them Arrows, monster?”

“There are simpler, more human ways to kill someone who’d claim to be a god.” He raised a knife.