Authors Note: The beating "heart" he speaks of is purely metaphorical. The desks were not mahogany, I remember them as something else, but mahogany is the only wood I could think up, so that's what I used, and everyone is just going to have to deal with that. I doubt many people would have noticed that, had I not pointed it out, but I didn't want anyone to be sitting in front of their computer all "OMG THEY WEREN'T MAHOGANY HOW STUPID!"

Disclaimer: Angel belongs to Joss and blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda.

x x x x

With sweeping shoulders too broad now to be held up in my weakest state, I slouch. I'm trying to remain professional, corporate casual attire proof enough of my efforts. I'm used to long black coats and big boots that could dent even the hardest of heads. But now my shoes shine like the sun through my windows, and my coat is on a hanger in the corner, its screams to be worn falling on deaf ears.

This entire establishment smells like rich coffee, mahogany desks, and too-expensive carpet cleaner. But underneath it all I can smell cemetery dirt. The ghosts of good intentions haunt this building in solemn silence. I don't think they're trying to hide it, given the chance I think anyone here would display their ill-intentions to the world. They would rip open their guts and show off their empty ribs, no hearts to speak of. Mine still beats in my chest, but I can feel it slowing with each passing day, hour, minute I spend in my high up office. It's disappearing bit by bit, and soon I, too, will be able to show off my emptiness.

The sun leaks through my windows and sinks into my skin. It's like slow working poison. This poison isn't for me, though. It maliciously tears apart my once admirable intentions, and will continue to do so until there's nothing left but crumbs. Crumbs that will be purged out of my body when my new attitude is stuffed in. I only pray these crumbs will not sully the carpet.

There's blood on my hands. I can't see it, but I can feel the sticky substance getting thicker with each passing tick on the clock. Each tick is a knell, ringing death for a new choice victim. A new name on our list, proficient black ink scrawled on starch white paper, stealing away its white innocence as we steal away their life.

The plush carpet under my feet makes me feel so much like a king. I'm undeserving of this feeling, as is everyone else who steps foot on its softness. We aren't kings, but we hide away in our towers, behind laws and legislature. I'm wearing a crown of thorns, but no one seems to notice.

I climbed over corpses to get here, to this very spot. I began with awkward naive feet, afraid to harm these people, wanting to help them. But now I climb over corpses everyday and turn a blind eye to those who suffer.

I'm the king of this tower, sipping my coffee and soaking up poison.