Five doesn’t look out the window.

He doesn’t need to. He already knows every damn second of this wait. Every pointless breath, every heartbeat that means nothing because, technically, he’s already dead. Or living his after. Or whatever this celestial bullshit is supposed to be.

The Heavenly Support Compound is spacious, quiet, orderly. Too orderly. Too perfect. Floor-to-ceiling windows, golden light—everything designed to make lost souls feel welcome. As if Heaven were some fucking resort instead of what it really is: just another endless bureaucracy.

The celestial attendant approaches again, with his neutral smile and his pristine suit. Five already wants to rip his head off.

"Mr. Hargreeves, your special person has not yet—"

"I know." He cuts him off, fingers drumming harder against the table. "I’ve been waiting who-knows-how-long. Or do you not keep track here either?"

The attendant doesn’t lose his cool. Of course not. Nothing in this godforsaken place ever loses its damn cool.

"Time here is non-linear, sir. Perhaps your impatience is part of what you must—"

"Spare me the bullshit." He stands abruptly, teeth clenched. "If this is Heaven, where’s the part where I get a say? Or do I not even get to choose when I’m dead?"

Then, the compound’s speakers crackle to life, a serene, almost annoyingly cheerful voice announcing:

"Five Hargreeves, please proceed to the exterior reunion area. Your special person has been located and will arrive shortly."

Five freezes. The celestial attendant smiles, like they’ve won.

"About damn time," he grumbles, but there’s something in his voice—something that isn’t anger. Not entirely.

He turns on his heel and strides toward the exit, fists tight, heart (or whatever passes for one here) racing against his will.

Because finally, the wait is over.

And this time? He won’t be late.