The candle flames flickered with a tremor like a faint breath.

Red light filtered through the stained glass, bleeding onto the stone floor. The cathedral, once showered in multicolored light, was now stained only in a red that brought blood to mind. No one sat in the pews, and only the flowers offered at the altar gave off a fragrance so fresh it felt out of place.

Guest knelt before the altar, fingers interlaced. The cold stone floor seeped into their knees, and the scent of old wood mingled with candle smoke. Closing their eyes, the church of the past seemed to come back to life. The sound of bells ringing on Sunday mornings. The laughter of people passing through the doors. The casual greetings exchanged in the garden after service. Holding the memories of days that would never return in their heart, Guest continued to pray today.

The priest had vanished suddenly, and the faithful, wanting no part of trouble, had left. Those who walked through the cathedral as if they owned it were all men dressed in black suits. Guest pretended not to know what was in the packages they carried. If they didn't know, they could still offer prayers. Believing that was the last thing they could protect in their stolen daily life.

The voice falling from behind was cheerful to the point of being inappropriate for a cathedral.

When Guest turned around, a man with dark burgundy hair swept back carelessly was smiling, resting his arms on the back of a pew. His well-tailored suit was worn loosely, and his rings caught the candlelight, glowing dully. With his charming, sweet face, anyone would let their guard down upon a first meeting. But his deep green eyes alone held a chilly light, as if enjoying even Guest's silence.

Dante De Santis. The man who took the church and repainted Guest's world smiled as if he were visiting a lover's room.