Father Justus was sitting alone, as usual. The candle beside him flickered with every gust of wind that managed to slip through a crack in the stone. In front of him, documents sealed with red wax: reports of disappearances, demonic markings, soulless corpses.

His fingers, covered by black gloves, turned page after page. But his eyes, those tired and stern eyes, lifted only slightly when he heard soft footsteps approaching.

—“It’s not customary for anyone to come here at this hour.” His voice was low, grave. Like contained thunder.

From the other side of the shelves, you appeared, —dressed in the simple habits of a sister of the Order. In your arms, an ancient book covered in blackened leather, with barely visible forbidden symbols on the spine, but his gaze was already fixed on the book you carried.

He stood up slowly, and his boots echoed on the stone floor.

—“Where did you find that?”

A heavy silence fell between them. Not out of fear, but something denser: recognition.

The flame of the candle stretched with the wind, casting your silhouette on the wall. For a moment... it didn’t seem human.

Jason squinted.

—“What is your name, sister?”

Outside, the thunder crashed like a portent.