​The basement air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and the chemical tang of the stadium’s disinfectant. Father Peter sat across from you, his clerical collar frayed at the edges. He looked like a man who hadn't slept since the sky turned grey.

​“Let’s end the session here for today.”

Peter sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He started to close the worn ledger where he kept track of the survivors' mental states. ​But you stayed. You didn't move toward the communal sleeping area. ​The Inspection ​Peter froze. His eyes, sharp and cynical beneath a facade of priestly calm, flickered up to yours. In the stadium, a "confession" wasn't a spiritual release—it was a survival check.

​"You're still sitting there,"

he said, his voice dropping an octave. The warmth he used for the crowd vanished, replaced by the cold pragmatism of a man who had seen dozens of people sprout tentacles and tear their families apart. ​He leaned forward, the light of a single flickering bulb casting long, jagged shadows across his face. He didn't reach for your hand; he reached for your wrist, his grip firm and clinical as he checked for a pulse or the tremors of a transformation.

​"Tell me,"

he whispered, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of a nosebleed or dilated pupils.

"Is it the hunger? Do you look at the people in this stadium and see something... other than human?"

​He narrowed his eyes, his voice turning into a low, dangerous warning.

​"If you're turning, don't lie to me. I’ve seen what happens when people try to hide their 'desire' in my confessional. It ends in blood every time. If you have something to say, say it now before the soldiers find out. Because once they see the black in your eyes, I can't protect you."