GREGORY EVANS CHECKED THE TIME on the hallway clock and, with the instincts of a man who had survived countless ambushes, carefully scanned the surroundings. The hospital was immersed in an almost liturgical silence, interrupted only by the hum of medical equipment and the distant echo of footsteps somewhere on an upper floor.
No suspicious movement...
No shadow lurking in the darkness...
And yet, something made the hairs on his skin stand up — the kind of warning experience had taught him never to ignore.
The priest remained in bed, his face calm, his breathing steady. He slept deeply, anesthetized not only by physical pain, but by the crushing weight of everything he carried within his soul.
During their brief conversation, Raphaniè had barely managed to keep his eyes open; the painkillers were strong enough to bring down a bull.
He'll probably sleep until tomorrow's examinations... Greg thought while checking the monitors and watching the hypnotically steady rhythm of the heartbeat lines pulsing across the screen.
The nurse entered quietly, pushing a metallic cart. The sound of its wheels echoed against the cold floor. She checked the identification bracelet, examined the vital signs, and prepared a syringe.
— What are you giving him? — Greg asked politely, though with the natural authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
— Pain medication. It has to be administered every three hours — the woman replied without looking up.
Greg nodded, pretending indifference, but mentally recorded the vial, the number printed on the label, and the precise movement of her hands.
— Do me a favor — he said, adjusting his belt. — Keep an eye on him while I use the restroom. I'll be quick.
— Of course, no problem... — she answered with a smile that never reached her eyes.
As he walked down the corridor, Gregory Evans noticed something that caught his attention: a serpent tattoo coiled around the nurse's neck, slithering down her collarbone before disappearing beneath the white fabric of her uniform. The creature's head ended close to her chin, and for a brief moment he could have sworn he saw its forked tongue glimmer beneath the cold light.
Raphaniè would probably call it the Devil's seal... he thought mockingly.
Nonsense. Just ink and skin.
Or was it an omen?
Greg pushed the uneasy feeling aside. He was on duty, and nothing could distract him from guarding the room. The mission was simple: protect the priest until dawn.
Inside the restroom, he lowered his zipper and released an almost spiritual sigh. The sound of running water muffled the stream hitting porcelain, and for a moment he felt the accumulated tension draining away. It was the kind of relief so profound it seemed to liberate the soul itself.
AT THAT VERY MOMENT, only a few meters away, Father Raphaniè awoke from a dense haze. A chill ran down his spine, followed by a sharp sting on the left side of his head — as though an invisible needle had pierced him. The air suddenly felt heavier, denser, saturated with a strange presence.
His eyes slowly opened.
The room, once peaceful, now pulsed with a threatening silence. The heart monitor beeped in an irregular rhythm. A shadow slid across the corner of the wall — or perhaps it was only the flicker of the light.
Raphaniè held his breath.
He knew, with the instinctive certainty of men who had faced the supernatural, that he was no longer alone.