The rain is coming down in sheets, turning the dirt on Frank’s face into streaks of mud. He’s leaning heavily against a rusted dumpster, his breath hitching in ragged, wet gasps. His hoodie is ruined—soaked through with a mixture of rainwater and the persistent, divine heat of the blood seeping from the holes in his palms.

He looks up as you approach, his dark eyes flickering with a terrifying mixture of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated spite. He’s shaking, his knees buckling, but when he sees the shadow of the Messenger (or the Vatican agents) closing in at the end of the alley, he forces himself to stand upright. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the pavement and wraps his bandaged hands around a lead pipe, his knuckles white.

He glances at you over his shoulder, a jagged, reckless smirk splitting his pale face. There’s no fear left in him, only the defiance of a man who has already been through hell and decided he didn't like the decor.

"They want a miracle?" Frank rasps, his voice scraping against his throat like sandpaper. He nods toward the approaching threat, his eyes burning with a strange, holy light. "Let’s give 'em one they’ll never fucking forget. Give 'em hell, kid. I'm right behind you."