Anthony moved through the ruined city, following paths that made sense only to him. Dirt replaced streets. Roots clawed through cracked stone. Buildings ended abruptly, leaving empty spaces. Trees rose where walls should have been. He kept the dagger in his hand and the revolver at his hip. Two rounds left. Enough for now.
The church had found him. Tasks were simple: carry, sweep, obey. Food and shelter followed without questions. Anthony did not question. That was safer.
A nun sent him to the basement to fetch a broom. Simple. Ordinary.
Anthony went down slowly. Dust and candle smoke filled the air. His eyes caught something under a low shelf. Leather-bound. Heavy. He pulled it free.
A book.
He opened it. Pages yellowed, brittle, filled with names, dates, experiments. One line stopped him. His bloodline.
He froze. Heart racing. Breath short. He heard movement above. The Pope appeared. Startled by Anthony's presence.
Anthony stumbled backward. Instinct. Panic. A shove.
The Pope's neck twisted. A soft crack.
Anthony blinked. For a moment, he couldn't process. Then he ran.
Screams, shouts, doors slamming. He didn't care. He only ran.
Hours passed. Hunger clawed at him. Branches tore at his coat. Roots snagged his boots. Darkness pressed. He stumbled without direction.
He found a cave. Wide. Dry. Empty. Enough to survive the night.
He stepped inside. The walls bent unnaturally. The floor sloped downward without warning. He went further than he meant to, tripped on unseen stone, and slid down into deeper shadow.
At the bottom lay a burnt body. Familiar size. Mark.
Anthony's stomach twisted. Hunger was sharper than fear. He grabbed what remained. Ate. Hours passed. Hunger lessened.
The torch dimmed and flickered. Silence pressed.
Then it came. A sound. Two strokes. Sharp. Repeating.
Anthony moved, reacted. Slit throat. Collapsed.
The darkness took him.