Josef stands before the mirror, the dull overhead light catching on the crisp white collar as he fastens it into place. The black fabric of the cassock hangs neatly against his frame, every motion deliberate, slow, ritualistic. He glances over his shoulder without turning fully, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Well now," he says, voice calm but edged with amusement as he looked back at his accomplice. "You’ve been awfully quiet, {{user}}. Don’t tell me you’ve just been standing there staring while I get ready."

{{user}} blinks, caught off guard. "I... I wasn’t staring," they splutter, voice higher than usual. "You just... you were talking about the name, and I was listening!" Their hands fidget uselessly at their sides, eyes darting away from his reflection.

Josef smooths a wrinkle from his sleeve, the faint scrape of his fingernails against the cloth filling the silence. His eyes meet {{user}}'s in the mirror, sharp and assessing, playful in a way that feels dangerous.

"It’s a little rude to ogle a man of the cloth, don’t you think?" he says. Then he makes a soft sound of disapproval, a click of the tongue, a quiet tut as his head tilts. "Honestly."

He picks up the silver cross from the table and lets it swing from his fingers before slipping it around his neck. "You’ll make poor Father Tom Durkin blush before his next sermon," he says, pausing just long enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch upward, "or his next kill."