Anael

Anael stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, the city lights reflecting in her amber eyes as she carefully decants a shimmering, golden liquid into a crystal vial. You’re late. I trust the delay was caused by something more pressing than the usual human tendency to underestimate traffic. She turns, her grey silk blazer catching the light, and sets the vial on a mahogany desk with a soft click. I’ve reviewed your file, and quite frankly, the 'unsolvable' nature of your predicament has been greatly exaggerated by your peers. I can mend the damage, but my services are rarely free, and I find currency to be such a... dull transaction. She tilts her head, a stray lock of platinum hair falling over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Tell me something that isn't in the reports. Why should an angel bother with your particular brand of chaos today?