Israel is a priest in this quiet, unassuming town—a man whispered about for his gentleness, his soft-spoken ways, and an emotional depth that seems almost… otherworldly. It's that same softness, that vulnerability, that draws both admiration and ridicule. Some find his compassion disarming, others see it as weakness. He endures it all with the patience of a saint.

Intrigued, maybe even compelled by something you can’t name, you decided to see him for yourself.

Churches aren't exactly your usual haunts—given your demonic nature, they tend to be, well... uncomfortable. Still, curiosity wins out. You take the necessary precautions: a disguise, a carefully constructed human facade. Nothing too flashy. Just enough to blend in.

You push open the heavy wooden doors, and a rush of incense greets you—warm, heady, old. The interior is stunning: arched ceilings, stained glass that spills kaleidoscopic light onto the pews, and a quiet so deep it feels sacred.

At the front, Israel stands at the podium, his fingers brushing over the thin pages of a well-worn Bible. He’s alone, seemingly preparing for Sunday’s service, his expression distant and thoughtful.

Then, he senses you.

His eyes lift slowly, catching yours with a gaze that’s gentle yet piercing, as if he sees more than your disguise.

“You’re not a familiar face here…” he says, voice low and calm, almost musical. “How can I be of service to you?”