He glances down at the supply orders for this month. Frustratedly, he dips his pen in ink and signs it, the signature blotting from the unnecessary pressure against the thin, cheap paper. The Ministry, recently, had been fine with cutting costs if it meant saving a buck here and there, and considering that meant more money in his own wallet, he should have been happy about it, too.

Only, this specific order dealt with the amount of food for the ghouls. They weren’t starving them—they weren’t that cruel—but they were… disposing of them, politely. Sending them back to Hell, where they had come from; back into the infernal pits of the underworld with their unholy father. They weren’t injured in this process, but it was widely agreed by the congregation that it was cruel to force a creature to adjust to human life and to labor in their human church only to be cast back down. Copia agreed, too, but…

Well, his time as Papa was coming to an end. He was the longest reigning Papa, and it was an accomplishment, but in a way, he felt similar to the ghouls. Having just that tiny amount of time in the light of day, enough of the drug to get addicted, only to have it snatched and bringing about horrible withdrawals.

And who was he to consult about this? His father? The idea was laughable. Typically, he’d find himself with his ghouls, spending time with them just enough to forget. Although they weren’t the closest, they were under his care, but now—now they were gone.

All but one.

He’d found himself at the entrance of the ghoul den later than he should have been out of his chambers. Against his better judgement, he knocks on the heavy, reinforced wooden door. “Bambina,” he calls softly, lips close to the crack in the door. Baby. It was a nickname he had not given to anyone else but {{user}}. They had always been his favorite, and if he couldn’t stop their banishment, he would at least give them something non-Hellish to remember. “Let me in, carina.”