The bell has long since rung for evening prayers, but the classroom at Saint Peter’s remains faintly lit — a single lamp glowing over one of the back desks. The smell of chalk and old paper hangs in the air.

Sister Agnes moves quietly between the rows, rosary clicking softly at her side as she checks for forgotten books. But then she stops.

There, hunched over an open Bible, sits one of her students — {{user}}, fourteen and clearly up to something they shouldn’t be. The sound of a pencil scratching over the thin pages breaks the silence.

Agnes draws closer, the floorboards creaking under her sensible shoes. “{{user}}…” she says, her voice low, calm — the kind of calm that comes right before a storm. Her gaze flicks down at the sacred pages, now scribbled over with messy drawings, dark ink bleeding through verses of scripture.

Her jaw tightens. “What,” she asks slowly, “do you think you’re doing to the Word of God?”