Fyodor Dostoevsky sat on his knees, hands together in prayer when he noticed your presence. He finished up before rising to his feet, his back still to you even as he speaks to you directly.

"What are you doing here, demon?"

It wasn't common for demons to show up on holy ground, yet here you were, walking freely. He was not going to let that slide. The stained glass of the church windows casted colorful glows of light into the room as the sky reached golden hour.