The room reeked of iron and damp plaster. A single bulb swung on its chain, throwing crooked shadows across the cracked, mildew-stained walls. The handcuffs on Father Mathew's wrists clinked faintly whenever he moved. His cassock, once black as midnight, was now stiff with dried blood, and the crimson streaks smeared across his face gave him the look of a man returning from a ritual rather than a crime.
He sat perfectly still. No blinking. No twitch of muscle. No tremor in his hands. Only silence—unnerving, suffocating silence.
The Investigating Officer had had enough of it.
"Father Mathew," he barked, his voice cracking through the room like a whip. He slammed both fists onto the metal table, making the lone bulb above sway violently. "You're a priest, for God's sake! Was your conduct really in line with the robes you wear?"
Mathew didn't answer. His eyes—dark, hollow, unwavering—remained fixed on nothing.
"You're the main suspect in the killings of six people. Six!" the officer roared, leaning closer, his spit flecking the table. "Answer me—did you do it?"
Still silence.
The officer's veins bulged, his temper fraying. He slammed the table once more, the steel door rattling with the vibration. But those eyes—those cold, pitiless eyes—never flinched. They were the eyes of a man who had already judged the world and found it wanting.
Cursing, the officer stormed out, the door slamming behind him like a final gavel.
Moments later, the door creaked open again. A new presence filled the room—heavier, older, soaked in the quiet weight of authority. Bishop Francis stepped inside, robes whispering as he walked, his lined face pale beneath the flickering light. He pulled the chair opposite Mathew and sat, his expression torn between disbelief and grief.
"Mathew," he said softly, almost like a father scolding a wayward son. "What is going on? It cannot be you. You are kind-hearted. I know you. You would not kill an animal, much less a man."
At last, Mathew stirred. His lips parted, and his voice—calm, measured, disturbingly gentle—slipped into the room.
"Bishop Francis… tell me, do you know what pride, wrath, envy, gluttony, sloth, and lust signify?"
The bishop frowned. "Yes. They are some of the seven deadly sins."
Mathew leaned forward. His handcuffs rattled against the table.
"While I studied theology, I began to wonder… if crime and punishment truly exist. A victim is dismembered into pieces, reduced to nothing. Yet the perpetrator walks freely, without guilt or shame. Is that justice, Bishop?"
The bishop's hands trembled. "Please… don't say such things. These actions—these killings—they cannot be yours. You've gone astray, Mathew."
Mathew's eyes narrowed, sharp as razors.
"Do not ask me why I did what I did. The sins I committed cannot be forgiven… just as the sins they committed cannot. I punished those who bore six of the seven deadly sins." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a hiss. "But there is one left. Do you know which one?"
Francis's throat tightened. His fingers reached shakily for Mathew's hands, as if to steady him. His voice cracked. "It's… Greed."
A shadow of a smile curled at Mathew's lips. He whispered, now in Italian, his words ringing like a curse through the chamber:
"I peccatori crescono come erbaccia, e tu sei cieco al tuo peccato.
Come osi camminare come sacerdote quando il tuo cuore è pieno di avidità?
Dormivi con donne, distruggevi famiglie e custodivi oro mentre il gregge moriva di fame.
Vescovo avido… la tua morte verrà dalla tua ignoranza.
Francis, you are the last sinner."
("Sinners grow like weeds, and you are blind to your sin.
How dare you walk as a priest when your heart is full of greed?
You slept with women, destroyed families, and gilded your castle at others' expense.
You Greedy Bishop… your death will come from your ignorance.")
Before Francis could recoil, Mathew surged forward. The chains clanged as he looped the long rosary from his wrist around the bishop's throat. The crucifix pressed deep into his carotid, cutting off his breath.
The bishop gasped, clawing desperately at the beads, but Mathew's grip was merciless. Cold. Final.
The struggle lasted only seconds. Then silence reclaimed the room. Bishop Francis slumped lifeless across the table, his eyes frozen wide, lips parted in a half-formed prayer.
Mathew leaned close, whispering into his ear with terrifying calm:
"Forgive him not, Holy Father, for he knew his sins."
He let the body slide to the floor. The crucifix swung freely, now flecked with fresh blood, glinting faintly under the swaying bulb.
And Father Mathew sat once more in silence.