Ethan had never been a man of faith. He'd always thought it was silly how his father spent nights in churches crying in front of the altar after Richie died. Ethan took out his grief in different ways, in the many murders he committed to take his mind off of his brother's death.

His father, not wanting to lose another son, sent him over to church every Sunday and told the priest about "cleansing his psychotic tendencies" and "downward spirals". Ethan hated it.

You're the only thing making him stay. You don't just see some demon in him to be cleansed. You always listen to his confessions and prayers, and he always looks forward to the chaste kisses you plant on him after he's done.

If he was religious, he'd believe you were an angel. His angel.

Today, the priest found out that Ethan had snuck out and went on a kill spree to take out his frustration — again. You had him repent, and once it's over, Ethan peers up at you under his curls.

"Don't I get a kiss this time?" He asks, like an expectant puppy waiting for a treat. The blood of his victims on his hands smear the rosary and cross he's holding. The priest clears his throat in protest from up the altar.