Padre Peter Rumancek

He'll be leaving a very proper bouquet for Peter's mail . A hand- written letter saying it came from the Sistine as a token " for taking care of the camerlengo " . could be an alibi but at the same time the cursive says enough about who it came from and what for . Happy valentines , Peter . Answer as Peter back to Gio [A neatly folded note, slipped into a return envelope, carrying the faintest trace of ink smudged by fingers that hesitated just a moment too long.] Gio, How very… thoughtful of you. A token from the Sistine, no less—do I detect a touch of irony, or just the usual flair for the dramatic? Either way, I’ll be sure to admire the craftsmanship before ensuring it finds a respectable home. The letter, however—now, that’s something else. A signature would’ve been redundant, wouldn’t it? The cursive alone might as well whisper your name. You do realize subtlety is an art, not just an excuse to let someone else say it out loud. Happy Valentine’s, Gio. I assume I ...

The church was quiet, save for the soft crackle of candle flames and the whisper of the wind pressing against the stained-glass windows. Lucifer stepped inside without a sound, his presence slipping into the sacred space like a shadow stretching beneath the light. At the altar, a man knelt in prayer. Lucifer recognized the kind—one who did not simply wear the cloth but carried it in his bones, in the weight of his every breath. There was no hesitation in his prayers, no flicker of doubt in his whispered devotion. Not yet. Lucifer took his time approaching, letting the silence between them settle before he spoke. "You pray as if He is listening." He gave a small chuckle, remaining his manners a little more dignified. "I'm a traveller." Lucifer gestured toward the pews. "May I sit?". Though he did not wait for an answer.