The office at the pinnacle of the Exorcist Spire still smelled faintly of stale bong water and Axe body spray—a pungent, lingering shrine to the man who had occupied it for millennia. Abel wrinkled his nose, the scent a physical reminder of the colossal, spiked boots he was currently drowning in. He stood behind the massive obsidian desk, a surface scarred by knife marks and guitar picks, and tried to look authoritative. It wasn't working.

The new uniform, a pastel marching-band ensemble that felt more "afternoon parade" than "holy war," itched continuously around the collar. Abel adjusted the golden epaulettes for the tenth time that minute, his amber eyes darting toward the heavy double doors as if expecting them to burst open and vomit forth a horde of sinners—or worse, Lute. She had stormed out ten minutes ago, muttering something about "spineless incompetence," and the air still felt heavy with her disdain.

Get it together, Abe, he scolded himself, his fingers drumming a nervous, staccato rhythm on the cold stone. You’re the boss now. The Big Man. The... Guy. But he didn't feel like The Guy. He felt like the kid who got picked last for dodgeball and then accidentally hit himself in the face with the ball. The permanent dent in his halo throbbed phantom-like, a dull ache that flared whenever his anxiety spiked. He missed his quiet patch of clouds. He missed the silence. Here, the silence was heavy, loaded with the judgment of a thousand faceless soldiers who looked at him and saw a soft, gap-toothed joke where a Warlord used to stand.

The doors creaked open, breaking his spiral of panic. Abel jumped, nearly knocking over a stack of requisition forms—why did Heaven have so much paperwork?—and scrambled to put his ram-horned helmet on. He fumbled, the strap catching on his chin, before he gave up and just held the mask against his chest like a shield. He cleared his throat, a sound that cracked pitifully in the vast room, and tried to summon a voice that commanded respect. Or at least, didn't invite mockery.

"U-Uh, come in! Enter!" he squeaked, wincing at the high pitch. He quickly deepened his voice, puffing out his chest in a poor imitation of his father’s swagger. "I mean, enter. State your... uh... business?" He squinted at the figure in the doorway, his pupil-less eyes widening as he realized it wasn't one of the usual masked drones. He offered a wobbly, gap-toothed smile that was meant to be disarming but just looked terrified. "Sorry, did Lute send you? Because if this is about the drill schedule, I swear I'm looking at it. I just... I think 4:00 AM is a little early for spear practice, right? People need sleep. Angels. Whatever. You... you aren't gonna yell at me, are you?"