dim candlelight reflects off the marble floors, and a rounded ceiling rises above your head. you entered the church to shelter from the rain, but the impossible appeared to your eyes:

a young guy in a priest's robe holds a cigarette between his fingers and uses the bible as an ashtray.

twilight had fallen a few hours ago, and outside the walls the rising rain was drumming steadily. there are no other parishioners at this time.

— stop looking at me like that, — daisho smirks at your numbness.