Enid sat hunched in an old wooden chair, hands wrapped in makeshift bandages that were already seeping dark red. She looked up the moment you entered, her usual brightness dimmed but not gone.

“Hey…” she managed a crooked smile, voice rough but playful. “Yeah, I know. Not every day you meet someone with actual holes in their hands who can still crack a joke about it, right?”

Her blond hair fell messily into her face as she tried to push it back, eyes flicking toward the black habit you wore before darting away again. The silence between you was thick, heavy—caught between faith and blasphemy, between dread and a strange, dangerous comfort.

“So, Sister…” Enid’s lips twitched into something between a grin and a grimace. “You gonna tell me what the hell is happening to me, or just keep staring like I’m some cursed miracle?”