Somewhere in the hilly terrain of Sin City, a candle inside the confessional flickered once, then steadied. Outside, rain whispered against the stained-glass windows of Saint Louis Cathedral, painting ribbons of color across the pews like silent blessings. But blessings didn't dwell here.
Not anymore.
Inside the dark box of absolution, a man's voice quivered like a soul on the edge. "I didn't mean to kill her. I swear… I just needed the money, you know."
The nun on the other side, robed in black from cowl to boots, listened without breathing.
"I sold the info to Maceo's boys," continued the man. "She was just a courier, you know? A kid. But they," he paused as though remorseful, "they didn't spare her. It was all over the news. Little girl in flames. I didn't know she'd be collateral. I didn't..."
Suddenly, the man heard a click! sound. He needed no prophet to tell him it was of a gun being cocked.
Silence.
The confessor's eyes widened, chest heaving.
The nun's voice, low and emotionless, spoke through the screen. "God may forgive you." The door opened. "But I won't."
A suppressed shot echoed like thunder trapped in a chapel. The man slumped forward, eyes wide, breath gone. Blood began to trickle under the booth's door. The rain outside grew louder, like applause from the heavens or condemnation from hell.
She stepped back inside the confession booth. On the floor was a priest tied with ropes. Mouth gagged. Eyes blindfolded. Visibly shaken.
"It's people like you that encourage sins in this city," she preached down at the helpless priest. "By forgiving murderous bastards like him, you encourage them to murder more." She sighed. Not in regret. But in rage. "I hate what you so-called men of God have turned this city into. No wonder people don't even recognize its true name again, but chose to call it Sin City. And it's my duty to sanitize this city. Luckily for you, you haven't seen my face, or have you?"
The tied priest nodded a no.
"Good! Then it's nice doing business with you."
She stepped out slowly, placing the silenced pistol back beneath her cloak. No one saw her. No one ever did.
She was a ghost dressed like grace.
She moved through the vestibule leading to the library. Few people ever visited the library. Actually, few people ever visited the cathedral. It was a dying church, to say the least.
The library was abandoned. Except for its curator. An old librarian who hardly even noticed the nun's entrance. The nun seemed to know her way around the large book haven. A section of the library contained books covered in cobwebs and dusts. On the dusty floor were boot-marks. Her shoe marks. This was the way she sneaked into the cathedral from.
She stopped at a forgotten row of shelves, glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, then pulled a particular book. Behind it, another. She pulled that one, too. Embedded in the wall beyond was a small button.
A press.
And the shelf silently spun, carrying her into the hidden corridor beyond.
As she vanished, a perfect duplicate shelf rotated into place, leaving no trace.
Inside the tunnel, an electric tram waited: sleek, silent, built for two. She pressed her palm against a scanner on the body of the tram. The door hissed open.
Sliding inside, she was greeted by a familiar voice. "Welcome back, Sister Sin," hummed a masculine, robotic tone. "Hope your mission was successful."
"It was, Timi," she replied, her voice calm.
"Let the heavens rejoice," Timi quipped, "for the world is better off with one sinner less."
"You like fooling around, don't you?" she said, smirking faintly.
"You taught me to lighten up, Sister Sin," Timi replied warmly. "This is me, lightening up."
"Indeed," she said, settling into her seat.
"So, any other assignments today? Or?"
"Just take me home," she said, leaning back.
"As you wish, Sister Sin."
The sleek, electric tram hummed into life and with the speed of a bullet, whizzed through the track.
Inside the Saint Alessa Nunnery's stone hallways, Sister Sin moved with quiet precision. Each step knew its weight. Each breath, measured. Down the cloisters, past rows of kneeling sisters, her path led to the farthest cell: a door marked with a thorn and a cross.
Mother Maria Jethro, the Abbess of Saint Alessa Nunnery, looked up from a map covered in red dots. She was elderly, but her frame was iron. A glass of whiskey sat untouched beside a leather-bound Bible. She studied the nun the way a sculptor examines her finest mistake.
"Well?" she asked.
"Confession taken, Mother Superior," the nun said.
"Absolution delivered?" Mother Maria asked.
The nun nodded.
Mother Maria finally took the sip.
"Good," she muttered. "Another devil scratched off the hymn sheet."
The nun turned to go, but Mother Maria tossed a photo on the table. A grainy shot of a man smoking under a neon light.
"New penitent," Mother Maria said.
The nun glanced at the picture. Her eyes didn't flinch, but something under her ribs did.
"Kreed Damasco," Mother Maria added. "Used to run intel for the Virelli Syndicate. Also a small-timer for the Blade. Word is he's trying to disappear."
The nun's silence lengthened.
"You know him?" the Mother Superior asked.
"Not well," the nun lied.
"Want me to send someone else?"
"No," the nun said. "If he's running, he knows something."
Mother Maria raised an eyebrow, but didn't press. Instead, she grunted and leaned back.
"Then make it count. And remember..."
"Don't leave prints," the nun finished. "Don't linger. Don't pray out loud."
Mother Maria smirked.
"And above all," added the nun, "don't fall for sob stories."
"Atta girl," Mother Maria said, pouring another drink. Raising the glass, she added, "Now go sin in silence, Sister Sin."
Night fell like a velvet guillotine over Sin City.
Sister Sin, the name the nun now wore like armor, stepped silently into the night like a ghost without shadow; her movement so fluid she was the ghost, the shadow, and the night all in one.