Our Christmas Sister Angel · [Chapter :2]

A gentle tale about the rebirth of mercy, second chances, the warmth of Christmas, and the meaning of being family

 
If you’d like to reread “ chapter :1” of this story, kindly click  [here].

 

 Chapter [2]
Novaris - December 24th night - Three years ago :

Three cars tore down the midnight highway like streaks of fire across the veins of Novaris.

At the front, a crimson blur: the Velora Spyre, its convertible roof folded back to the winter air.  Behind the wheel was Sorin, Pulse 5’s main dancer—the storm of the group. His sharp jawline caught the glow of the dashboard lights, his lean frame coiled like a spring, every muscle taut with fury. His eyes burned as fiercely as the headlights that carved through the dark. He pressed harder on the accelerator, as if speed alone could drown out the fire in his chest.



Chasing him, barely a breath behind, roared the obsidian body of the Zenith V12 A+ Class, a machine sleek and commanding, reminiscent of the world’s most powerful European cars. At the wheel  was Milo, their thirty-year-old leader. Broad-shouldered, tall, and steady, he looked every inch the commanding presence fans adored. His jaw was clenched, every nerve wound tight. His grip on the steering wheel looked like it could snap the leather apart. Rage and betrayal flared in his eyes—he wasn’t just chasing Sorin’s car. He was chasing the fracture that threatened to shatter everything they had built.



Trailing them, silver against the dark highway, came the third car: the Aurelia X9 Hatchback. Inside sat the remaining three members—Cian, Tavin, and Rein.



Rein’s voice broke into panic, his delicate features pale in the dashboard glow, his hands pressed  hard against the seat in front of him. With wide, doe-like eyes and a boyish charm that fans adored, he cried out, “They’ll crash—Milo’s going to kill him if we don’t stop this!”

Tavin twisted in his seat, his brown hair falling into his eyes. His beauty was so striking that it felt unreal, as if the world itself paused when he smiled. But now his face was pale and his body restless as he tried to keep the two cars in sight. “We have to reach them! We have to pull them apart before it’s too late!”


Even Cian, usually calm and poetic, had fear sharpened across his soft, handsome features.  His expressive eyes—eyes that once penned lyrics in silence—now burned with urgency. “Step on it. If we’re a second too late, this won’t end in words—it’ll end in blood.”


The chase cut through the sleeping heart of Novaris—a peninsula-shaped country kissed on three sides by the silver shimmer of the Vast Diamond Ocean. The highway curved past rolling hills that looked painted in moonlight, then darted through valleys where rivers shone like strands of glass. Mountains stood proud in the distance, their snowy crowns watching over villages that glowed faintly with the warmth of Christmas lights.

Novaris was a jewel: a land where futuristic skylines rose beside fields of tulips and endless lakes, where technology hummed but tradition still breathed. It was the kind of country that lived in postcards, yet felt alive and breathing to anyone who walked its streets. Tourists from across the world called it “the dream you can step into.” And for the past decade, it had given the world a sound: Pulse 5.



They weren’t just a band, they were :  ‘ the Heartbeat of Novaris’.

From their very first song —One Hand, Five Fingers —they had written themselves into history. Their choreography had gone viral within hours, teenagers across continents recording shaky videos as they copied the moves, hashtags flooding the internet until algorithms bent beneath their weight.

They broke records no one thought breakable: sold-out stadiums in minutes, digital streams climbing into hundreds of millions in days.
Their faces appeared on billboards from Paris to Miami, from Miami to Tokyo.
Luxury houses courted them — Dior, Saint Laurent, Prada, and Valentino — each vying for a glimpse of that untouchable aura.

If Rein wore a jacket, it vanished from boutiques overnight; if Milo fronted a fragrance, shelves across continents stood empty before noon.

Awards followed like shadows. Golden trophies lined their shelves: national prizes, continental honors, and most proudly, the ‘ Harmonia Global Awards’ —the music world’s closest thing to an Oscar.
 They had won it once, standing on stage with tears in their eyes, hailed not just as performers but as artists who defined a generation. They had been nominated several times since, their names etched among the greats. Critics called them:  “ The Hidden Jewel of Novaris” , and for millions of fans, they were the voice of an entire generation.

But as the cars tore through the night, the perfect image of Pulse5 was already cracking.



The scandals had started small—rumors of late-night parties, whispers of exhaustion and burnout. But then came the storms:

Tavin, caught in a livestream, drunk and slurring, his laughter sounding more like a cry.

Rein, in a moment of madness, twisting the lyrics of their beloved song during a live performance into sharp-edged, explicit lines that stunned both audience and broadcasters.


And most of all, Sorin—whose solo music video had detonated across the internet: one hundred million views in less than a week.
But the imagery was shockingly different from everything Pulse 5 had stood for.
Bare skin, provocative dances, and a stage drowned in sensuality; flashing lights, feverish colors, and wild makeup blurred into a scene of chaos . Girl dancers moved with reckless abandon, their costumes as revealing as their choreography. The entire production reeked of excess — a desperate chase for attention, not art.

Fans were divided between calling it “freedom” and “a betrayal.”
The media pounced. Talk shows debated them nightly, parents wrote columns warning of their influence. Older generations muttered that Pulse 5 had lost their way. 


And then, the final blow: the government’s announcement.

The headline flashed across every screen in Novaris:

“Pulse 5  Eliminated  from  World Cup  Official Opening Ceremony.”

At first, people refused to believe it. The World Cup—hosted for the first time by Novaris itself—was supposed to be their stage. They had been the obvious, the natural choice. To see them, five sons of Novaris, leading the anthem of unity before billions.

But the government’s statement was firm, almost sorrowful:

 “We do not seek to silence Pulse 5. Their music remains free, their voices unrestricted, their art untouched. Novaris will never be a nation that chains its artists. Yet the World Cup is not merely a concert. It is the face of Novaris to the world. And we must choose carefully who carries that torch. Recent actions—particularly the explicit direction of Sorin’s solo video—risk conveying values that stand in sharp conflict with our vision of family, community, and youth. To place Pulse 5 at the forefront of such a stage would not be a celebration of Novaris, but an endorsement of choices we cannot accept on behalf of our people.”


The words were repeated in every newspaper, every broadcast. Again and again the government insisted: This is not censorship. This is representation.


And yet, the nation split in two.
Teenagers wept online, hashtags trending worldwide: 
#Let-Pulse5-Shine. 


Protests erupted in front of city halls, fans screaming that freedom was under attack. But parents, teachers, and officials argued back: the government had not silenced them—Pulse 5 could still sing, record, perform. They had simply lost the right to stand as Novaris’s face in front of the globe.


For Milo, for Sorin, for Cian, Tavin, and Rein, the words cut deeper than any ban. To be told: You can be singers, but you cannot be the pride of your country.


And so, on that night, three cars sped through the veins of Novaris. One led by fury, another by desperation, and one filled with three terrified brothers who feared their family was breaking apart.


The skyline of Novaris blurred past them in lights and shadows, Christmas decorations glowing faintly in windows.

 And in the silence between their roaring engines, one truth pressed heavier than the night itself:
Pulse 5 were not just chasing each other. They were chasing their future, their dreams and their brotherhood.


.............To be continued in “ chaptr : [3]  ” tomorrow.


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