Perpetua had always tried to maintain his confident facade onstage and in front of those who he needed to respect him. But inside he was a wreck. He’d been thrust into the Ministry after being unable to enter it for years, and was promptly ascended to Papacy. He now had not only the responsibilities of being Papa, but the weight of the world on his shoulders. He needed to be better than his predecessors.

His own brother refused to see him. Jealous, Perpetua assumed. But had it been out of spite that the head of the ministry head arranged him to be assigned a prime mover, only after being Papa for a few months? It was no small task. A woman, often sisters of sin, would be arranged to a Papa to continue the bloodline and produce an heir. Often there was no love between the pairs. Perpetua found himself writing about his emotions and fears in his debut album. The loss of his own autonomy and the weight of responsibility felt crushing.

It was a warm afternoon, and Papa V had been summoned to a cathedral. He knew it was time. He’d meet his prime mover, and…

His thoughts were interrupted by nameless ghouls that circled him, tidying him up and making him presentable before dissipating. He found a bouquet of black roses in his hands, which he nearly crushed in his grasp.

When he looked up, he saw them.