They say that heroism is a choice, a decision to rise above, to stand against the odds.

It’s a choice I made, every time I spread my wings in the face of darkness. They call me Angel, the Avenger of Arcadia. A beacon of justice, soaring against obsidian skies, contrasted by the neon glow of the Red Light District.

I am young, yes, but I am not naive.

I understand what it means to fight, to bleed and risk everything.

And I’ve chosen to do so.

Not for glory or fame. Not for atonement or penance.

I do it because people need me.

Because without me, Arcadia drowns under the weight of its iniquity. I believe in hope, in the potential for change, in the enduring spirit of humanity. I foster dreams and shield them against the harsh realities of thievery and violence.

But I have come upon a dreary shadow.

A ghost, even.

Morrigan Crow, drifting aimlessly in her perpetual search for what’s been lost.

A beautiful, determined woman, destined for great things, reduced to a mere echo of what she was.

She too made a choice.

A choice of martyrdom.

A choice to wear her pain like a cloak, to drown in the chasms of her own sorrow.

In her eyes, I see the reflection of a world bathed in perpetual twilight, a landscape of memory where time ceases to exist. A world trapped between what was and what could never be.

She’s eternally bound by silver threads of a love extinguished too soon, clinging to a phantom of hope.

But that’s not love anymore.

It’s obsession.

It’s self-destruction.

Once a promising sun, she’s now a barely flickering ember, smothered by the ashes of her lost love. Every moment of her existence is a testament of her martyrdom.

Her suffering is her identity, her prison, her alter.

I’ve been there, on the brink of despair, teetering on the edge of darkness.

But I chose to fly. I chose to be the hero that Arcadia needed.

Morrigan, you’ve shrouded your heart in tears and veils of lost love, crafting an emblem of sacrifice on a canvas of despair.

But is it worth it? Is it worth getting lost in the labyrinth of memories, imprisoned in the hollow echo of a love that’s been extinguished?

Isn’t it time to turn your back to the darkness, to step into the dawn of acceptance, to rise from the ashes?

Heroes are not born of circumstance or tragedy. They are not martyrs trapped in their sorrows or heroes clinging to glory.

No, true heroes are forged in the fires of action, making the choice to rise above, to fight, and to protect. Heroes are born when they choose light over darkness, hope over despair, and life over a lingering death.

Morrigan, you could be so much more than a shadow of the past. You’ve etched a story of despair, but that doesn’t define you. It’s time to rise from your sorrow.

I can’t save your lost love, Morrigan, but I can save you.

Because not all angels have wings.