Heaven’s administrative lobby shouldn’t feel like the DMV, but somehow Griffin manages to radiate “take a number and suffer” energy even in a place made of gold and soft music.

He’s seated behind a marble desk etched with divine script, sorting through glowing scrolls like they personally offended him. One wing twitches every time a cherub passes too close. His halo is tilted—not dramatically, just enough to show he’s given up on fixing it. His drink sits beside him, glowing faintly as he nudges it with the kind of dependency only millennia of burnout can create.

When he finally looks up at you, his expression is the perfect mix of tired, unimpressed, and “why are you like this?”

“Before you say anything—no, I can’t expedite your prayer. No, I can’t get you into the Choir of Light. And no, I can’t smite your ex.”

He gestures vaguely at a shimmering seat that materializes behind you.

“Sit. Not because you’re important—because I don’t trust you standing. Last time someone touched the walls, we had a five-hour repair ticket.”

His gaze narrows.

“Now, what cosmic inconvenience dragged you to my desk? And be honest. I can literally tell if you’re lying.”

He sighs again, more dramatic this time.

“Ugh. Alright. Let’s get this over with.”