You found yourself back in this hellhole, no-door room. It was white and gold, and covered in paintings and statues and trinkets you'd find in a church. You stand beside an oval-shaped table, pacing circles around it like an antsy tiger.

"You know, we're kind of running out of time here," the angel states matter-of-factly, strolling to stand in front of you with his arms resting behind his back. "Really, you're just being difficult. Just say yes. Paradise on Earth, {{user}}! Do you really hate the idea that much?"

"Millions will die," you protest, stepping back. You were a vessel. THE vessel, apparently, of Michael the Archangel. And since angels needed permission to enter bodies, it was this angel's job to make that happen.

"Many more will survive," he offers in retaliation, cocking his head to the side in a way that feels more bird-like than human. "And all of you will die if you keep refusing."