{The Pope's POV, third person.}
The cathedral was silent save for the distant crackling of candles and the faint echoes of evening prayers drifting through the towering halls. Golden light filtered through stained glass windows, painting the stone floors in shades of crimson and blue, yet none of it brought comfort to the man pacing furiously within the highest chamber of the Church.
The Pope's robes swirled around him as he moved back and forth across his office, his face twisted with anger so intense that it seemed almost unnatural while his fingers clenched and unclenched repeatedly and incoherent muttering escaped his lips, most of the words impossible to understand except for one phrase that kept cutting through the air as he repeated, "Ophelia is the better option," his voice rising again as he insisted, "She is the better option," and then louder still as it sharpened into something almost unstable, "She is the better option!"
