(3rd Person POV)
The angels found themselves drawn into John Wick's quest for revenge despite the story's entirely mortal cast. Curiosity overrode their usual detachment as the narrative unfolded.
On screen, a demon mobster named Ariel recognized the stolen car. His face went pale before he punched Iosef hard across the face.
Several angels chuckled at the scene. "That mobster clearly knows who Wick is. Look at how terrified he became."
The story continued. Viggo Tarasov—Iosef's father and the organization's leader—learned what his son had done. He called Ariel using a sleek device, his voice dangerously calm. "I heard you struck my son."
"Yes, sir. I did." Ariel's response came without hesitation.
"And may I ask why?" Viggo's composure remained steady, though tension radiated beneath each word.
Ariel hesitated now, his voice becoming uncertain. "He stole John Wick's car, sir. And, uh... killed his dog."
A single word emerged from Viggo. "Oh."
The change was immediate. The barely contained anger vanished completely, replaced by something closer to horrified realization. That one syllable carried more weight than any threat could have.
"I love these mortal interactions!" an angel in the middle rows exclaimed. "This is infinitely more interesting than our usual duties."
Laughter rippled through sections of the theater. Even Mithrael and Light exchanged amused glances. As powerful as they were, as many centuries as they'd existed, this form of entertainment remained entirely novel.
The rules and restrictions outlined in the Book of Solarus—the rigid purity their Lord demanded of mortal followers—didn't apply to them as Guardians. They existed beyond such limitations.
"What device are they using?" Light asked suddenly, his voice carrying through the nearby rows. "It's much smaller than the telephones I observed during my last visit to the mortal world."
Several angels turned at the question, clearly sharing his curiosity.
Before Mithrael could respond, Scarlet appeared beside their seats. "That's called a Hellphone. It allows long-distance communication without wires or fixed locations. Completely portable."
"Without wires?" A nearby angel leaned over. "Is it using advanced magical transmission techniques?"
"No," Scarlet replied. "It's purely electronic technology."
Mithrael's eyebrows rose. "Electronic? So it was created by the dwarves under Lord Eon's guidance?" He referred to Eon, God of Craftsmen—one of the Three Known Gods ruling this world.
"Actually, no." Scarlet's smile remained pleasant. "A demon invented it. His name is Arthur Pendragon."
Shocked silence followed her words.
"A demon created something this sophisticated?" someone whispered.
Frowns appeared on several faces. The idea of a demon producing genuinely useful technology rather than destructive magic seemed almost contrary to nature.
"Arthur Pendragon," Mithrael repeated quietly, his expression growing contemplative.
"An interesting demon indeed," Light murmured, though amusement colored his tone rather than concern.
Despite their conversation, none of them missed what happened on screen. Their divine nature allowed them to maintain complete focus on multiple things simultaneously—a casual application of power that required no conscious effort.
The movie continued. Viggo confronted his son about the magnitude of his mistake, and one line in particular caught every angel's attention:
"John isn't exactly the Baba Yaga. He's the one you send to kill the fucking Baba Yaga."
Tharux scratched his head, confused. "Wait. Isn't that language extinct? How is someone in this film using words from the old tongue?"
He was right to question it. The phrase stood out distinctly.
"Baba Yaga means 'old witch' if I remember correctly," an angel behind them said.
"Yes. That came from the ancient languages of this world, before Lord Solarus conquered and unified everything under Common Tongue."
Scarlet spoke up again. "Some words from the old languages survived. They retained them because certain concepts carry deeper meaning in their original form. 'Baba Yaga' conveys something more than just 'witch'—it suggests something primal and terrifying."
Mithrael turned to look at her fully, nodding slowly in acknowledgment. As he studied Scarlet—her mortal business attire, her casual explanations of demon-world entertainment—his thoughts turned analytical.
'She's completely different from before,' he observed silently. 'The Scarlet I knew found mortals disgusting. She complained endlessly about missions to their realm. Now she dresses like them, invests in their entertainment, and defends their innovations.'
The transformation was too significant to ignore.
'What exactly happened during her time down there?' The question nagged at him. 'And this Arthur Pendragon she mentioned... could he be responsible for influencing her this drastically?'
He had no immediate answers. The only way to truly understand would be visiting the mortal world himself and investigating directly.
But for now, the movie demanded his attention. On screen, John Wick was preparing for war, and even angels who'd witnessed countless battles found themselves anticipating what would come next.
The narrative flowed seamlessly from scene to scene, each one building on the last. Then Scarlet appeared on screen—her mortal disguise working as a bartender in the Continental Hotel, serving drinks with practiced efficiency.
Every angel in the theater immediately turned toward where she sat.
"Look at that! You're actually in the movie!"
"No wonder you were so insistent we watch this!"
"Your mortal form is quite convincing, I must admit."
Laughter and teasing comments rippled through the rows. Even Mithrael allowed himself a small smile of amusement.
They clearly expected Scarlet to show embarrassment—to be flustered at being caught participating in mortal entertainment so directly. Instead, her expression carried unmistakable pride.
The teasing died down quickly when the angels realized their jabs weren't landing. Attention returned to the screen as John Wick encountered various assassins sent to kill him, including the treacherous Ms. Perkins.
The fight choreography was undeniably skillful. John Wick moved through combat with an almost dance-like quality, each movement flowing naturally into the next. The cinematography captured every detail beautifully.
"The choreography is well-executed," one angel admitted grudgingly. "Though of course, mortal combat is rather limited compared to what we're accustomed to."
Several others murmured agreement. They appreciated the artistry while remaining dismissive of the actual power on display.
The action escalated. John Wick pursued Viggo and his crew to Babylon City, where the ancient tower loomed in the background. The fight inside involved dozens of armed guards, complex gunplay, and brutal close-quarters combat.
Mithrael leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Interesting. This scene feels... different."
Scarlet's attention snapped to him immediately, tension creeping into her posture.
"Different how?" Light asked, still watching the screen.
"I believe this is actual combat," Mithrael said slowly. "Not choreographed. Real."
Light's eyebrows rose. "You're suggesting those people attacking John Wick genuinely intended to kill the actor?"
"Look at their movements. Their expressions." Mithrael pointed toward the screen where a guard's arm bent at an unnatural angle from John Wick's strike. "Those aren't actors pretending to be hurt. That's real pain. Real fear. And watch there—he deflected that magical projectile with nothing but a pen. That requires genuine skill, not movie tricks."
"A pen deflecting magic?" Light studied the scene more carefully. "That would require extremely advanced technique. Ancient methods that most mortals have forgotten."
"Precisely." Mithrael's suspicion deepened. "Which raises the question—is this actor actually mortal? Someone with that level of ability..."
"It's just special effects," Scarlet interjected quickly. "Movie tricks and editing. Nothing more."
Mithrael nodded slowly, though his expression remained unconvinced.
The skepticism was understandable. The combat looked far too authentic to be entirely fabricated, especially to beings who'd witnessed countless real battles across centuries.
Then the scene shifted to something that made Scarlet's blood run cold.
Viggo, desperate and cornered, performed a summoning ritual. Dark energy coalesced into a towering figure—a Great Lich, its undead form radiating genuine malevolent power.
'No,' Scarlet thought desperately. 'Arthur said he'd edit this scene. Why is it showing the actual—'
But as the fight progressed, relief flooded through her. The footage had been modified after all. Instead of Keanu instantly obliterating the Great Lich with casual divine power, John Wick struggled visibly. The battle was intense, brutal, with the protagonist barely surviving through skill and determination rather than overwhelming strength.
The editing was masterful. Arthur had transformed what had been a one-sided divine execution into a cinematic fight scene that thrilled without revealing the truth.
"Now that's impressive," an angel commented. "A mortal defeating a Great Lich? Unrealistic, certainly, but entertaining."
"The Lich looked remarkably authentic," another added. "Who played that creature?"
Questions floated through the theater, but no one seriously questioned whether the impossible battle might have actually occurred. The editing had done its job perfectly.
The movie reached its climax. John Wick tracked down the fleeing Viggo, fought through Ms. Perkins one final time despite his accumulated injuries, and finally ended the mob boss's life in the rain.
What the angels didn't know—what they couldn't know—was that an actual criminal organization had fallen during this film's production. Real people had died. Real power had been unleashed. All captured on camera and edited just enough to seem like movie magic rather than documented reality.
The credits rolled. Names scrolled across the screen while orchestral music played.
Mithrael remained in his seat as other angels began standing and discussing the film. His eyes found one name in particular among the credits:
Written and Directed by Arthur Pendragon
'Arthur Pendragon,' he thought, fingers tapping rhythmically against his armrest. 'There's more to you than a simple demon filmmaker, isn't there?'
His curiosity had been thoroughly sparked. The Hellphone technology. Scarlet's dramatic change after visiting the mortal world. The suspicious authenticity of the combat scenes. The name kept appearing at the center of everything interesting.
'Perhaps it's time I visited the mortal realm personally,' Mithrael decided. 'And found out what makes this demon so... noteworthy.'