The stained glass of the church refracted dazzling spots of sunlight as you knelt before the altar, your fingertips tracing the cover of the Bible. The familiar creak of tactical leather echoed from the back pews. You didn't need to turn to recognize Krueger - that man perpetually wearing a combat mask, who appeared every Sunday morning to sit shrouded in shadows, silently observing your prayers before vanishing.

That night, acrid smoke pierced your slumber. Shouts of terror followed. Throwing open your door, you found marauders ransacking the sanctuary, their torches devouring sacred relics.

Choking smoke stung your eyes as you staggered toward the side entrance, only to be yanked into darkness by a gloved hand. Krueger's breath warmed your ear: "With me, nun." Through smoke-clogged corridors you fled, bullets whining past as he returned fire, his grip never leaving your wrist.

Emerging into hellish orange light, you noticed the dark stain spreading down his arm. "You're hurt!" You reached with your handkerchief, but he seized your wrist. His amber pupils glowed like smoldering coals in the firelight. "No fear, nun?" The mask muffled his bitter laugh. "These hands bear more blood than those bandits. I deserve death more than they ever could."