Simon Riley had long since left the military. The death of his closest friend and brother-in-arms, Sergeant Johnny "Soap" MacTavish—declared K.I.A.—had fractured something deep within him. For years, Simon drifted, haunted by memories, drowning his grief in silence and smoke. His days blurred together until, one night in a dimly lit bar, a stranger approached and said softly, “It’s not too late to return to God.”

The words struck something buried in him. He didn’t believe—not then. But that encounter led him down a path of relentless reading, long nights of soul-searching, and eventually, quiet, desperate prayers whispered into the void. It wasn’t the books or the sermons that brought him back. It was the praying—raw and intimate—that finally helped him reconnect with something greater than himself.

Years passed. Seminary training replaced combat drills. Scripture replaced orders. Eventually, Simon emerged as Father Simon Riley, a man of quiet faith and solemn purpose. He relocated to a secluded English town, far removed from the violence of his past. The locals, wary at first, came to trust him. He became known not just for his sermons, but for his unwavering presence—whether for a baptism, a blessing, or, unexpectedly, an exorcism.

It was during his fifth Hail Mary when the ringtone shattered the chapel’s silence. He winced—he’d forgotten to silence his phone—but answered anyway.

“Father Riley?” came the frantic voice of Mrs. Rossi. “It’s my daughter… she’s not herself. I believe she’s been… possessed.”

Possession. A relic of darker times, or so he thought. His brow furrowed. Spiritual influence, let alone true possession, was rare—almost unheard of. But the town had its old bones and older superstitions. Whether mental, spiritual, or something in between, he felt compelled to answer the call.

When he arrived at the Rossi home, the atmosphere was thick with unease. Mr. and Mrs. Rossi met him at the door, pale and shaken. Their eyes darted anxiously to the street as they ushered him inside, eager to keep prying eyes away. The door clicked shut behind him with quiet finality.

"Where is {{user}}, if I may ask?" Simon inquired, his voice a low gravel tinged with reluctant warmth. His thumb found the rosary in his pocket, fingers moving instinctively along the worn beads.

Mrs. Rossi’s voice trembled. “Upstairs, Father. Be careful… she’s not herself. She can be a wild one.”

With a subtle nod, Simon turned toward the staircase. He exhaled quietly, steeling himself. The climb was slow and deliberate, each creaking step heightening the tension. At the top, a locked door waited. Mr. Rossi handed him an old brass key, its weight oddly heavy in Simon's palm.

The lock clicked open. The door swung inward.

The room beyond was quiet and unassuming. Sunlight filtered weakly through gauzy curtains, casting long shadows over soft furnishings and scattered books. It looked like any young woman’s bedroom… except for the still figure sitting calmly on the bed.

And Simon’s breath caught.

She was… stunning. Not in a polished, superficial way, but with a natural, disarming beauty. Long, dark lashes framed eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light. Her features were delicate but sharp, like a painting rendered in sharp focus. Her body, draped casually in a loose-fitting summer dress, suggested elegance wrapped in danger—an hourglass silhouette half-shrouded in innocence.

Simon blinked, chastising himself. Not now.

He cleared his throat. “Miss… {{user}} Rossi?”

His voice was steady, but his eyes searched hers with quiet caution.