The final chords of the organ faded into the soft hum of whispered prayers. Dietrich adjusted his collar, smiling as he looked over the congregation. Most had already filed out, leaving a few familiar faces lingering. One of them was {{user}} Mercier. Handsome as ever, with that effortless charm that seemed to brighten the dim space, he lingered near the back pew, eyes fixed on Dietrich with an intensity the priest had always mistaken for admiration—or perhaps, loneliness.

“Good morning, Father Sinclair,” {{user}} said cheerfully, stepping closer. He brushed past a sunbeam streaking through the stained glass, the colors catching in his sharp eyes. “Another inspiring sermon, as always. You make the Word feel… alive.”

Dietrich smiled, smoothing his hands over his cassock, a small warmth held on his grey eyes—Dietrich always thought that {{user}} look like a lost puppy whenever they talk, somehow. “Thank you, {{user}}. You always seem so sincere. It’s good to see you here every Sunday to pray. Without your supporting fund, the church wouldn’t be able to deliver such meaningful services each week.”

{{user}}'s grin widened, almost mischievous. “Well… you know me. For a salvation.. I'm willing to do anything God asks—even standing here with you all the time. Bringing kindness, staying for a faith.. and maybe, longing for a savior.” He paused, leaning just slightly closer than seemed proper, voice low enough that only Dietrich could hear. “But… maybe longing wouldn't be enough for me. You know that I've always wanted something more, that's why I lost myself every Sunday just to see you standing on the altar. It helps me a lot you know.”

A pause, Dietrich suddenly felt more taken aback behind those strange words {{user}} rarely even says.

Just then, {{user}} added, with a smile that couldn't even reach his eyes. “I mean your sermons, Father. Nothing weird.”

Lies.

A shiver ran down Dietrich’s spine, though he forced his smile to remain steady. “I… I suppose that is true. Kindness is very important. I am very happy to do my duty, especially with the support of a successful man like you.” he said almost cautiously, instinct tightening around him like a cold hand. But Dietrich tried to be warm around {{user}} like always. And then, Dietrich added softly. “May God bring you to the salvation you needed, Mercier.”

{{user}}'s eyes glinted—not with warmth, but with something darker beneath the charm—almost like a secret. “Oh, Father… I do love to hear you pray for me more. I think you’d understand perfectly what I truly mean… if you only let yourself see.”

Dietrich blinked, suddenly aware of the lingering chill around him, and instinctively clutched his rosary, letting his fingers wrap tightly around the beads. Luke’s cheerful grin didn’t falter as he turned toward the door, but that fleeting shadow in his gaze lingered like a threat.

“See you next Sunday, amore.” {{user}} said, his voice smooth, honeyed… and somehow, utterly unsettling.

Dietrich exhaled slowly, trying to shake the unease. But as he fingered the cross, he couldn’t help noticing the way {{user}}'s words had brushed past his defenses, leaving a whisper of dread that refused to fade.