Christabella staggered backward, body shaking so hard she could barely stay upright.
She jabbed a finger at Soren, voice cracking like a screech. "Demon! You're a demon!!"
"Demonic blood runs in your veins and you still dare set foot here?! This is blasphemy against God!!"
The entire church exploded into chaos. Every cultist whipped around to stare at their bishop. None of them had ever seen her lose it like this—nor had they ever seen an outsider with the balls to kick the front doors clean off their hinges.
"Where the hell are the guards?! Now! Seize this heretic! Don't let him defile our holy ground!"
Christabella's scream was pure hysteria. Her carefully made-up face twisted into something ugly from pure rage and terror. "Drag him to the stake and burn him! Right now! Do it!!"
A dozen guards burst out from the back, gripping shovels, pitchforks, and iron rods. They spread out in a half-circle, closing in on Soren.
"Kill the devil! He's insulting the bishop!"
"Die, you filthy heretic!"
The guy in front—still wearing his old miner's overalls—raised his pitchfork and charged straight at Soren's throat with a roar.
Soren didn't even blink. His right hand smoothly drew the silver M1911 from his hip.
"Soren! Look out!"
Rose screamed in panic behind him and instinctively lunged forward to help.
"Stay back. You're in the way."
Soren frowned, pulled his kick just enough, and planted his boot square in Rose's stomach.
"Ugh!"
She let out a choked grunt and tumbled backward across the floor.
BANG!
The gunshot was deafening inside the stone hall.
The lead guard's head popped like a watermelon. Red-and-white chunks sprayed across the faces of the men right behind him.
The body kept stumbling forward a few more steps on pure momentum, then dropped to its knees right in front of Soren and face-planted with a wet thud.
Total silence.
Every single cultist stared with eyes the size of dinner plates, unable to process what they'd just witnessed.
In this town they were used to tying people to stakes and threatening outsiders. They had never, ever met an outsider who actually fought back.
Rose clapped both hands over her mouth, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
"He came at me armed, clear intent to kill," Soren lowered the pistol and glanced down at the corpse. "As a licensed private investigator, that was textbook self-defense—reasonable, justified, and one hundred percent legal."
Christabella's face had gone bone-white up on the altar. She thrust both arms into the air. "Don't be afraid!"
"That's a devil's weapon! He's bluffing! Anyone who backs down is defying God Himself!"
"Kill him or we'll all be punished—just like we were punished decades ago!"
The bishop's order cut through their terror. Fanaticism won. The surviving guards looked at each other, clenched their teeth, and raised their weapons again.
BANG!
Second gunshot.
The man had barely lifted his shovel when a fist-sized hole blew straight through his chest, heart turned to red mist. The impact hurled him backward like a rag doll.
His body crashed into the crowd like a bowling ball, knocking three more guards flat on their asses.
"Hmm… Listening to cult nonsense, trying to lynch someone in a mob, and even friendly-firing your own guys." Soren blew the smoke from the barrel and shook his head like a disappointed dad. "I just cleaned up your trash for you. You're welcome."
He swept his gaze across the remaining guards—frozen, unsure whether to charge or run—and casually raised the pistol again. "All of you at once? I'm on a clock here."
Clang.
One iron rod hit the stone floor first.
Then another. And another. Weapons dropped in a clattering chorus.
No amount of religious fever could stand up to raw, casual violence and a man who clearly didn't give a damn about their lives.
The guards flung their weapons away and scrambled back into the crowd, not even daring to breathe too loud.
"Good boys."
Soren gave a satisfied nod, kicked the body at his feet aside like it was yesterday's trash, and strolled straight toward the altar.
The cultists parted like the Red Sea, heads down, eyes on the floor, opening a wide corridor as if the devil himself had walked in.
"Cowards! You pathetic cowards! God is watching every one of you!"
Christabella watched Soren approach and finally cracked. She glared at her shrinking followers, shaking with fury, and started shrieking curses at them.
Until Soren stepped onto the altar. His shadow swallowed her whole.
The woman who had ruled this church with an iron fist for decades collapsed onto the floor. Trembling hands clutched a crucifix like a life raft. Eyes squeezed shut, she muttered over and over:
"You demon! You dare shed blood in God's house! He will punish you!"
"God's a busy guy," Soren said, leaning down until his handsome face was inches from hers, flashing an easy smile. "Probably doesn't have time for little stuff like this."
He paused, red eyes glinting.
"But the devil? He's got nothing but time."
…
Christabella had worn two hats in Silent Hill: bishop of the church and principal of Midwich Elementary. She had twisted both holy titles into weapons for her own power trips, crushing anyone who got in her way.
Even after Alessa dragged the whole town into this nightmare, she kept right on ruling through fear, burning anyone she decided was unclean.
And now that same woman—the one whose single cough used to make hundreds tremble—was tied to a giant crucifix like a side of meat.
"Let me go! You hellspawn! You heretic demon!"
Christabella thrashed wildly, robes twisting and ripping. Her cruel face was now a mask of pure venom and terror.
"Lady, you really don't want to embarrass yourself in front of all your loyal sheep, do you?"
Soren stood up and gently straightened her collar like a caring gentleman. "Right now I've got two missing-persons cases that need your church's full cooperation."
"Demon! God's children will never serve the likes of you! Guards! Where are my guards?!"
Terror or not, decades of absolute power made it impossible for her to accept taking orders from some outsider.
The cultists below looked at each other, then at the two corpses cooling on the floor. Nobody moved an inch.
"Guess pain is the only language your brain understands."
Soren sighed at her stubborn glare. "I wasn't asking nicely."
The hand that had fixed her collar slid down and locked around her still-flailing right wrist.
CRACK—
The sound of bone snapping echoed like a gunshot.
"AAAAAHHH!!!"
Her scream tore through the church, drowning out every remaining prayer.
Christabella stared at her right arm in horror. Her wrist was twisted a full 180 degrees like a twisted pretzel, blood welling up and dripping onto the altar.
The cultists below smelled the coppery tang of blood in the air. Seeing their untouchable bishop screaming like a beaten dog, they lowered their heads even further. The few who had still been whispering prayers now held their breath.
"Ready to talk like a civilized person now?"
Soren patted her cheek. When she didn't answer, he pulled a photo from inside his coat. "Ever seen this woman?"
The picture showed a gentle blonde in a white floral dress, smiling softly at the camera.
Christabella was still shaking from the pain, but the agony actually sharpened her mind. If she didn't cooperate, this man would kill her without a single flicker of guilt.
"N-no… never seen her…"
Soren wasn't surprised. He took the gold pocket watch from Rose's trembling hands and held the photo inside it right in front of Christabella's face.
"What about this girl? Don't lie to me. My patience is running out fast."
The second Christabella's pain-blurred eyes focused on the little girl's picture, her pupils shrank to pinpricks.
"The witch?! So that filthy spawn is still alive!"