"Look, Seravion…" Philip began, pointing a finger at the angel-system with the expression of someone who had already lost every last shred of patience. "Why don't you just admit it already? Just say: 'I desperately needed a human to clean up the mess my God made because we, perfect celestial beings, are complete emotional incompetents.' There. End of the theater."
Seravion blinked calmly.
"It is not an incorrect formulation."
"GREAT!" Philip clapped once, the sound echoing in the golden hall. "Since we finally have honesty, let's get to work, because clearly I'm the only one here with a functioning brain."
He took a deep breath, cracking his neck like someone about to rewrite a constitution.
"That idiot Mac Lassen is probably with Rosalind just because she reminds him of that so-called White Light from his original world, right?" Philip gestured wildly, fuming.
Seravion, as always, answered with serene precision:
"Your analysis coincides with the narrative report. The protagonist fulfills visual parameters compatible wi—"
"Shut up, Seravion. For the love of God, don't turn my indignation into statistics." Philip massaged his temples. "Anyway. Since we're stuck in this circus, let's do the obvious: we're going to make him taste his own poison."
He straightened, lifting his chin with triumphant flair.
"You're going to insert me as the classic 'poor little rich boy.'"
"'Poor little rich boy'?" Seravion tilted his head slightly.
"Yes, winged creature. The kind of rich guy—very rich—who wipes his ass with money."
Seravion opened his mouth to ask something, but Philip steamrolled over him:
"And another thing: I'm going to be Rosalind's childhood friend. Universal law. Every urban cliché has that."
"Statistically, seventy-three percent o—"
"Shut up, Seravion, I know."
He lifted a theatrical finger.
"And since we're diving headfirst into the pure, concentrated, overused JUICE of clichés, we're including the whole combo:"—
Philip pitched his voice high on purpose, imitating an overly dramatic telenovela narrator:
"'Oh, she saved my life when we were children…'"
Then he returned to his normal tone:
"So you're going to make it so Rosalind saved me when we were kids. Or I saved her. Doesn't matter. Pick whichever gives the dumb billionaire the most emotional damage."
He thumped a hand against his chest.
"We're diving straight into the narrative cliché soup. I want the full recipe, artificial seasoning included."
Seravion looked at Philip the way someone watches a building burn but appreciates the aesthetic of the flames.
"If this is your chosen performance strategy, I can adjust the plot and insert you as—"
Philip raised a hand.
"No."
He inhaled deeply.
"First, you're going to guarantee my interdimensional labor rights. But that's for later, because right now I'm going to deal with the love life of rich idiots. Just… insert me properly."
Seravion nodded, forming glowing runes in the air.
**"Then it is decided. You shall be introduced as:
Heir Lloyd — heir to one of the richest families in the world
Rosalind's long-lost childhood friend
A character with enough emotional relevance to destabilize Mac Lassen."**
Philip smiled, satisfied, and snapped his fingers.
"Perfect."
And behind them, the golden portal opened once more.
"Let's go cause chaos, Seravion."
"Good luck, Mr. Hartwell."
And he stepped through.