In Khuzestan, Iran, May 1985, Arash Shirazi narrates his secret role in the Iran-Iraq War. His commander Arman has explained that one man in every five hundred is selected to dress as an angel: a long black robe, a hood, riding a black horse named Badbadak, with a DC flashlight mounted under the hood to illuminate his face like a divine ball of light. Arash carries a sword shaped like Zulfiqar, Hazrat Ali's twin-fanged blade, drawn so the moonlight catches its forked tip.

Arash explains the purpose: he rides among dying soldiers after battles to give them the vision of an angel, bolstering their faith so they suffer through to death rather than killing themselves. Arman illustrates this with a hadith about a wounded soldier who slit his own throat and was turned away from Jannah by a weeping Prophet, sent instead to a hell so terrible Arman won't name it. Action is judged by intention, Arman insists.

Arash confesses uncertainty about his own faith—he sees the prophets only in flickers—but Arman trusts him because his intent is to help the dying. The dying men in his platoon are often boys given men's names, sent to battle wearing keys to heaven around their necks. Arash thinks of Mira from the market, with her scarves and a child's plastic toy sword, hundreds of kilometers away.

As he rides, dying men cry for water, which he is forbidden to give—angels carry no water. One man vomits blood and dies; another offers a gold watch and calls a woman's name, possibly offering her in trade for survival. Finally, a soldier with his leg torn open sees Arash, bursts into tears, and gargles Ayat al-Kursi through blood, seeming to smile. The flashlight burns hot against Arash's face, the sword's fangs glint, and for a moment the illusion feels real.