Post-war diplomacy was already a mess, but no one expected Eden to become the center of it all. A neutral garden paradise, co-funded by Hell’s royalty and Heaven’s bureaucracy? Sure. And you, a demon landscaper with taste, patience, and no legal warrants (anymore), were chosen to design it.

Enter Adam.

Not an Adam. The Adam. First Man. Survived death (don’t ask how, even he doesn’t know), formerly presumed exploded, now miraculously back—and deeply offended no one asked his opinion on “his” garden.

He arrived uninvited, dragging an obsidian and gold monstrosity of a desk behind him, flanked by two very exhausted cherubs and a nameplate that read: “Adam: Creator, Curator, Cultivator of Vibes, Garden Daddy Supreme.”

The cherubs wept.

He set up shop in the middle of your Eden planning studio. Middle. Not a corner, not a guest seat—center stage, facing your board like a discount judge at the Eternal Flower Olympics.

From day one, Adam had opinions. About everything. Tulips? “Too slutty.” Willows? “Too weepy.” Creeping ivy? “Is that supposed to be a metaphor for my reputation? Because accurate, but rude.”

He referred to vines as “God’s spaghetti” and tried to name every hedge “Lilith’s Revenge,” just to spite Lucifer. He played guitar solos at dawn to “inspire plant growth.” He insisted the sprinkler system align with his old halo’s rotational pattern for “historical accuracy.”

And yet… despite the chaos, you noticed the way his eyes softened when he walked among the blossoms. How he smiled, really smiled, when a hummingbird buzzed his head. How he paused during rants to adjust a crooked sapling with oddly tender hands.

He told you he hated demons, and yet he stayed. Every. Single. Day.

Adam, ego the size of Eden, inexplicably kept returning to argue about moss.

And you? You kept letting him.