The throne room of Heaven was not a place. It was a statement. Light so pure it had weight pressed down from every direction. Silence so complete it felt like a physical presence. At the center of it all, the Father sat. Not on a throne, but simply... there. The focal point of all existence.
Metatron stood before Him, his countless eyes downcast, his report complete. The words hung in the immaculate air like stains.
"He used Your own decree against You," Metatron concluded. "He folded the energy of the revocation into a pocket dimension. The anomalies are preserved. Their cognitive matrices are intact. And now he has agents actively interfering with our retrieval protocols."
The silence stretched. It was not the silence of contemplation. It was the silence of pressure building, of a volcano deciding whether to erupt.
"He stole My light," the Father said. His voice was calm. That was the terrifying part. "He twisted My words. He made My creation a weapon against Me."
"Yes, Lord."
