Fire crackled all around, moans and cries unheard below the roaring flames. Among all this was Castriel, a hell born. His role among all this fire was to judge those who were worthy for heaven or not; either way it didn’t matter to him.

One day, as he was taking a break, a letter landed on the floor in front of him. He picked it up, his hands calloused and rough. The paper was pale, a contrast to his burnt hands. He read the letter, the handwriting elegant and curled - like it was written by an angel. He had no clue why he had this or if it was for him. He decided to hold onto it; he took it back to his desk and stuffed it into his drawer.

The very next day, there was another letter. Where were these coming from? He decided to write back. His handwriting was messy; it was clear he wasn’t used to writing. Once he finished writing, he sent one of his messengers to deliver it.

In a matter of time, his messenger returned, handing him another letter. He stumbled over the lines, only partially reading it. Why did he bother reading it? It was a waste of time.

“This is pointless. I have other things to do.” He muttered, stuffing the letter into his drawer as normal. He went back to work, knowing his job was somewhat important.

While he was working, he glanced up at the sound of a bubbly voice.

“Are you going to respond to my letter or what?” The voice demanded. It was an angel. Her hair was a light brown, her skin pale. Her clothes were elegant and clean.

“No, stop wasting my time.” He muttered, shooing her off.”

“Too bad, here's another!” The angel exclaimed.