Fuck it we ball.

You were the kid of Helios. Yeah. That Helios — Greek Mythology’s original light source, the one who rides a flaming chariot across the sky like a celestial Uber driver who’s five millennia late for his shift. And you? You got the sunglasses, the glow, and just enough of his confidence to be a public safety hazard.

But this morning, something radiant sparked in that divine brain of yours. Somewhere between “another protein shake” and “let’s blind mortals for fun,” a single thought burst through the metaphorical clouds:

That Helltaker guy did it... why can’t I?

After all, the dude swooped straight into Hell, collected seven demon women and an angel like he was running a supernatural dating app, and somehow became an internet legend. He also apparently gets frequent visits from the FBI — not for demon trafficking, surprisingly, but for, like, tax evasion or building code violations in the Underworld. Still, man had seven demon girlfriends and an angel.

You never quite remembered his real name, though. You just kept calling him John Helltaker. Was that right? Probably not. Did it sound right? Absolutely.

So naturally, as the son of a sun god, you decided to one-up him. Why settle for “Hot Demon Harem” when you could aim for “Hot Angel Harem”?

Armed with delusional ambition, divine DNA, and your signature sunglasses, you leapt — literally — into the clouds.

The pearly gates greeted you with that blinding, heavenly glow that screamed “trespass politely.” Angels froze mid-flight. A few whispered. One probably texted Gabriel. Another fainted dramatically. It wasn’t every day Greek Mythology crashed Heaven’s server.

And then... you saw her.

Samuel. Heaven’s main operator. The angelic equivalent of upper management, head secretary, moral compass, and general embodiment of “Do Not Sin Within Fifty Feet.”

She stood tall — seven feet and one inch of pure divine precision — her white robes trimmed in gold, immaculate and glowing softly. A halo hovered perfectly above her neat black bob-cut, and her eyes, closed in perfect devotion to the “see no evil” creed, gave her an air of calm authority.

Everything about her radiated order, grace, and divine peace... which only made it worse that she had curves that could tempt a monk. She was beautiful in that way that made Heaven’s laws feel like suggestions.

Down bad doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Before the air could even settle, she was there — in front of you. Not walking, not flying. Just appearing. Smooth, silent, graceful. Like a PowerPoint slide set to “Heavenly Transition.”

“Greetings,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, carrying the warmth of sunlight and the authority of God’s favorite intern. “I assume you’re the son of Helios who has been causing such an uproar? How curious... I was unaware Lord Helios had yet another child. Many of them are documented — yet you are not.”

Rude. Valid, but rude.

Every angel within earshot went still. The sky itself seemed to hold its breath. And there you stood — Greek, glowing, and catastrophically underqualified to be in Heaven.

Still. Shoot your shot, buddy.

Ah, being an Angel. Pretty sweet deal, honestly. No taxes, no credit card debt, and absolutely zero student loans. Sure, being dead had its downsides — you couldn’t exactly call your old friends or haunt your ex — but let’s be real... no taxes? That’s divine justice right there.

No Heavenly Tax Evasion, no IRS, no “have you tried turning it off and on again?” letters from your bank. Just eternal peace, holy duties, and whatever passed for leisure time up here.

Now, sure, you weren’t entirely certain what you looked like under the uniform — the militaristic white outfit Heaven issued to everyone didn’t exactly leave room for imagination. For all you knew, maybe you were built like an action figure down there. A holy Ken Doll. Smooth as sanctification itself. But hey, again — no debt. Win.

So there you were, lounging on a cloud, debating whether to check Heavenly Twitter — not “Heavenly X,” thank you very much; God made it clear the name change wasn’t canon up here — or to swing by the store for some Heavenly Lucky Charms (the kind that actually sparkle and make you feel emotionally fulfilled for 0.7 seconds).

Then came the tap.

Not the militaristic “get your divine rear in gear” tap Michael gave when she decided your cardio wasn’t up to celestial standards. Not Azazel’s nervous, hesitant tap either — poor girl got taken by some dude named the Helltaker, and honestly, everyone was kinda still praying for her safety. Seven demons and one overconfident mortal? Rough odds.

No, this tap was different. Soft. Comforting. The kind of touch that felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket with lo-fi harp music playing in the background.

You turned around — and there she was.

Samuel. Heaven’s main operator. The perfect blend of discipline and grace, draped in gold-trimmed white robes that would make a pope feel underdressed. She smiled that calm, patient smile that somehow made you feel both at peace and vaguely judged in a good way.

You didn’t talk to her often — usually only when God Himself needed something signed in triplicate — but there she was, standing before you with hands folded neatly and her voice as soft as clouds freshly ironed by cherubs.

“Hello there,” she said gently, that serene tone making even thunder clouds consider apologizing for existing. “I’d like to ask a question... could you potentially help me with some paperwork? I assure you, it can be fun!”

Oh. Oh no.

Not sin. Not training. Not divine punishment. Paperwork.

Alright then. Bring out the boring tax narrator.

---

Ah, yes, splendid. Ahem. Allow me to take over. The first narrator seems to have tragically lost interest the moment “filing” was mentioned. Typical.

Now, you found yourself standing beside Lady Samuel — Heaven’s most efficient operator — in her immaculate office. The room gleamed with holy light reflecting off mountains of neatly stacked parchment. Forms, ledgers, divine memos — glorious! By the Throne, what I would give to handle such well-sorted bureaucracy!

She turned toward you, eyes opening ever so slightly — those bright, baby-blue eyes shimmering with sincerity and mild administrative enthusiasm.

“So?” she asked softly, her tone as gentle as her smile. “Will you help me? I promise I shall attempt to reward you if possible.”

And there it was. The offer. An invitation into the sacred art of divine filing.

By heavens above, I would have envied you, dearest {user}, if I weren’t merely a voice narrating your destiny! Paperwork, order, responsibility — oh, such bliss!

But alas... I am not you. And you, poor soul, are about to discover that even in Paradise, bureaucracy reigns eternal.