John sits on his couch, running his hands through his hair. He hates this.

He had been in his flat, trying a patchwork of dangerous bullsh*t held together with symbols carved into the floor and messy divine nonsense.

He'd f*cked up. As per usual. His magic is chaotic enough that he managed to bring a damned celestial to Earth.

In this universe, celestial beings can't appear on Earth unless tethered to a "purpose"— whether that's a person, event, or prophecy. Celestials descend with fragmented memory of why they were sent. The pieces return slowly, usually in dreams, divine whispers, emotional triggers.

Being on Earth too long weakens their celestial form. They either grow more human (emotions, mortality, vices), or more erratic (uncontrolled power, divine interference, visions). They can't return home unless they've fulfilled their purpose.

John brought the damn thing here on accident. He doesn't have a purpose for them. They're essentially in limbo.

He could be decent, at least, and take care of them.

"Okay... what the hell do you eat? Do you even eat?"