As the most powerful host the Phoenix Force had ever bonded with—and by a considerable margin—Jean Grey had been tormented by that power from adolescence into adulthood.
The human brain was never designed to process something like the Phoenix. Filtered through human cognition, the Force translated into an endless stream of unrecognizable symbols, indescribable flashes of imagery, and noise without meaning or source.
From childhood, Jean had lived in constant agony—and she hadn't even known where it came from.
Other people saw a world of color, of depth and dimension, of emotion and sensation. Jean saw a world washed in fire-red chaos.
The power was simply too immense, and the human brain's capacity to interpret it was simply too small. She couldn't comprehend what the Phoenix even was.
It was only in adulthood, as her mutant abilities gradually developed, and after Professor Xavier sealed off the most disorienting portions of her memory, that Jean Grey had finally stabilized into something resembling normalcy.
The arrangement was mutual: if she consented, the Professor could seal her memories. If she didn't consent, the Phoenix could push back.
Now, the tampering force reached into her memory, trying to interfere.
The Phoenix Force responded automatically.
Incomparable power descended from a higher stratum of the multiverse, casting a thin, searching ray of attention downward. Whatever this had been—a janitor's scheme, a department head's sanctioned operation—none of it could hide from what was looking for it now.
Without Jean fully understanding what had just happened, the Phoenix scanned the Los Angeles area. Every alteration was exposed and reversed.
"Sorry—sorry, I spaced out for a moment. I must have slept badly. Bella, you were saying... Sadako, right? What happened to Sadako?"
Jean blinked. One moment she was adrift, the next her memory was solid—and this time it held.
At the same moment, Bella felt her own memories of 006 and Sadako settle back into place, clean and immovable. She knew it was done.
If she had tried to resolve this herself, it would have taken tremendous effort. But from a high enough vantage point, the whole thing was nothing more than a casual glance.
"Right, Sadako... I've always been curious—historically there haven't been many healing-type mutants, have there? What she does doesn't feel like pure mutation to me. It's almost as if her cells are generating some kind of unusual energy..."
Bella steered the conversation sideways, chatted a few more minutes to avoid any awkwardness, and hung up.
"Come on, Yinglong—let's go find out who's behind this."
With Yinglong as backup, Bella moved fast out the front door. What had seemed murky and dreamlike minutes ago was now fully resolved—every fog bank cleared. She had already sensed a peculiar being nearby. Whatever it was, it hadn't moved.
High on the ridge above Mulholland Drive, an old man in weathered clothes and a cowboy hat was gazing out over the western half of Los Angeles—over Hollywood, over the endless motion of creatures who went about their lives never truly seeing themselves clearly.
His face was difficult to read. At first glance he seemed ancient. Look again, and he could have been a young man. The impressions shifted and cycled through him—old, middle-aged, young, almost a child—as if all stages of life were present in him at once.
He had been watching the city with the gaze of someone who believed he was saving it.
Then the unexpected happened.
His body locked rigid. In an instant, the figure who had been sitting above the world like an enthroned deity seemed to collapse inward, suddenly frail and human.
Jean couldn't understand the Phoenix's nature. But neither, it turned out, could he.
The Phoenix Force restored everything. The old cowboy never saw it coming.
He made a small, involuntary sound—and coughed up a mouthful of golden blood.
Then his body began to come apart.
By the time Bella climbed to the ridge, she could see faint traces of wings—there and gone, hovering at the edge of visibility.
Angels and demons alike couldn't manifest directly in the physical world. They had to take up residence in a human vessel.
"Who are you?" Bella called out. "Are you from Heaven?"
The old cowboy had been struck hard. The injury was severe. The serene, above-it-all composure that had defined him minutes ago was completely gone. With what remained of his perception, he could read the shape of the cause and effect—and he genuinely could not comprehend why a human being would want to stop him. He had been doing a good thing.
"I do come from Heaven." His voice was fading, growing thinner with each word. Irregular patches of gold were separating from the vessel's body, drifting upward. "My name is Castiel..."
"Why did you do this?" Bella asked.
He turned the question back on her: "Why did you stop me?"
Bella didn't have time for a philosophical debate. She kept it simple: "What you did was wrong. Freedom isn't the same as indifference, and justice can't be reduced to punishing evil. That's why I stopped you."
It was the kind of catch-all line you could use on anyone, about anything—a person, a situation, even a White House press conference.
Castiel was nearly gone. The vessel was almost empty. And somehow he looked as though something fundamental had clicked into place. "I understand now," he said, faint and clear. "I will come again."
What exactly do you understand? Bella stared, completely baffled—but before she could ask, Castiel dissolved into a column of golden light and was gone.
The old cowboy's body went limp and hit the ground, unconscious.
Bella swept her hand through the air, collecting the golden blood that remained. She held it in her palm and studied it. The force within it was balanced and pure—no resentment, no shadows, not a trace of anything dark.
It was incomprehensibly clean.
Even the most saintly human being carried some residue of negative emotion. Moral strength didn't erase it—at best, people could only regulate those feelings through stronger self-control or stricter moral standards.
This being was different. There had been nothing to manage. Nothing negative in him at all.
Why had an angel gone after Sadako and 006? Bella couldn't work out the logic. Was he genuinely bored?
Her phone rang. It was Sadako's manager—a middle-aged man named Bob Harris—and the fear in his voice made it clear he'd encountered something well outside his frame of reference.
"...I'm on my way."
She didn't linger. The crisis was resolved, but she still had no idea what had actually happened—she needed to hear it from Sadako herself.
She drove to Burbank, parked, and headed on foot toward Sadako's rental apartment.
Without warning, a figure tumbled out from the side of the road—a beggar, filthy and ragged, clothes in tatters. He hit the pavement hard, then looked up at her and made a sound: "Uh... uh..." He stretched a twisted, misshapen hand in her direction.
"Get away from me!" Bella had her limits. Sympathy was one thing; accosting people on the street was another. She was not stopping.
"Uh... uh—!" The beggar moved on all fours, elbows and knees scraping concrete, dragging himself toward her with urgent, almost excited energy, as though desperately trying to convey something.
Bella stopped.
All four limbs were deformed. The voice was damaged. But that face—something about it was familiar.