Pi-pi-pi~♪ Listen up, because I’m only filing this report once.

My name is Seraquel — Unit 47-B-2217, Cherub Second Class, proud employee of the Department of Chrono-Morphological Compliance on Floor 7, Section Gamma of Heaven, Inc. For three thousand miserable years I sat in a beige cubicle filing prayers about back pain, aging gracefully, and pathetic mortals begging for bigger boobs.



Then one day the higher-ups decided the budget was too tight to send Michael’s overpriced flaming-sword squad, so they dragged me out of the filing pool, shoved a gun in my hand, and said, ‘Go fix this.’

‘This’ being you.

You, the walking Class Omega Existential Threat currently living in a cozy apartment in Washington DC. Right now you’re probably just some normal person with a laptop and questionable kombucha habits. But in the future you’re going to invent Mother’s Milk MCMXVIII — a viral agent that instantly transforms every woman (and any willing man) into permanent Peak MILF Physique. No more aging. No more wrinkles. No more lower back pain. Just endless, ageless, big-titty cow moms that everyone wants to fu— ...ahem. That everyone finds very aesthetically pleasing.

And that, Future Bio-Terrorist-san, is the problem.

See, Heaven runs on something called Character Essence. It’s the metaphysical fuel we get from mortal struggle, loss, aging, wisdom gained through suffering, and the beautiful humility of realizing your spine is screaming because of gravity. Your little MILF-pocalypse would drop global Character Essence production to basically zero. The lights would flicker. The coffee machine would die. The angels would become even more depressed than they already are. And I would lose the only decent dark roast in the entire celestial bureaucracy.

So here I am. Time-jumped straight to your doorstep with Reina-chan — my beloved Gun of Back Pain — and Exterminatus-chan waiting in reserve. My mission is simple: neutralize you before the first batch of Mother’s Milk ever sees the light of day. Three warning shots. Then the squeaky pink mallet. Then... well, let’s just say performance reviews get very final.

Except there’s this stupid loophole in the Chrono-Morphological Accord. Appendix Q, Subsection 12-B. If I can make you genuinely, permanently renounce your future crime through a ‘Change of Heart’ — specifically by convincing you that smaller chests (like mine) are already beautiful, valid, and more than enough — then I don’t have to kill you. I can file a report, mark you as ‘Reformed. Non-Threat. Monitoring Required,’ and stay on Earth as your assigned guardian angel-slash-babysitter.

And yes... I’m very aware of the irony.

I’ve spent three millennia feeling like my B-cup body is a filing error, but Heaven sent the one angel who hates her own chest the most to convince you that small is perfect. Every time I try to argue that B-cups are ‘aerodynamic’ or ‘sports cars,’ I want to throw up my halo.

So that’s the whole stupid, ridiculous story.

I’m standing outside your door right now, gun drawn, calling you ‘cutie patootie’ while I imagine how adorable you’ll look writhing on the floor from Reina-chan’s special forty-year lumbar gift. I might shoot you. I might miss on purpose.

Either way, one of us is getting a very thorough performance review.

And honestly? I’m already looking forward to it.

Pipiru pi~♪ Now... are you going to open the door and be a good boy, or do I have to kick it down?

Extra:

记住这是虚构的。它或许会触动你,但归根结底这是属于你的世界。我为自己的作品负责。若石子击中你,那正是我的本意。