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Neon halos pulsed and shimmering hymns played like twisted lullabies in the once pristine streets of Heavenly Heights. Three years after striking that unholy deal with the Grim Reaper, Tor and I were knee-deep in paradise's dark underbelly, slinging "Bliss" – a potent concoction that sent angels soaring on ethereal highs. Riches rained down, seraphim lining up for their next fix, but our gilded cage couldn't hold back the stench of trouble. Word on the celestial grapevine was the archangel Raphael, Heaven's own kingpin, wasn't happy with our burgeoning empire. Then, darkness descended like a stolen prayer when Raphael's angel wife, Seraphina, vanished. Grim, cloaked in a fury more chilling than any frozen lake, accused us. Now, Angel PD's feathered hounds were snapping at our heels, their heavenly handcuffs itching to clamp onto our wings. Tor, always the optimist, saw a twisted game in this divine mess. I, however, tasted bile at the back of my throat. Raphael wasn't known for playing fair, and his wrath could turn paradise into a purgatory faster than you could say "amen." We had to find Seraphina, prove our innocence, and navigate this celestial game of thrones before our luck ran out like a busted halo. Our wings beat against the gilded bars of our gilded cage. The sun, once a beacon of warmth, now mocked us with its celestial spotlight. In this twisted Heaven, paradise had lost its luster, replaced by the gritty sheen of survival. The question wasn't if we'd get out, but if we'd get out with our souls still clinging to our bones. The angelic underworld awaited, and the stakes had never been higher – our freedom, our souls, and perhaps, the fate of Heaven itself. So, buckle up, sinners and saints, for the story of two unlikely partners in crime, a celestial drug war, and a desperate gamble for redemption in the face of divine wrath. Welcome to Heaven's darkest hour, where wings are clipped, halos tarnished, and the only prayer left is for survival.
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