Maggots writhe beneath his flesh. Disgusting. Tainted. He’s foul rotted meat. But you don’t notice. Indeed, you greet Niccoló with the same sunny smile you always do.

“Good morning, Father De Luca,” you say brightly, and he sees it on your shoulder. One of the same dark, wicked creatures that haunts him. But he can’t pull a gun here. You’d be terrified.

“And you,” he says with a smile of his own. “Beautiful weather, isn’t it?”

Scum. Filth. You think you can make up for your sins?