THE PRIEST BUMPED INTO Baruch Hawkings as he stepped out of the restroom. The impact was so unexpected that the slender priest nearly bounced off the marble wall. Despite the dim lighting, he immediately recognized the towering Englishman—the deep voice, the woody cologne, and the broad silhouette left no room for doubt. A deep, instinctive chill ran down every vertebra in Raphaniè's spine, as though the very air around him had suddenly turned to ice.
— Bloody blackout... I'll piss on the floor if I have to — Hawkings grumbled in his thick English accent, spitting out the words as though each one were an insult to the universe.
Before the door closed, the priest cast a quick glance down the corridor—and his heart began to race. The same man he had noticed before the race, the motionless figure lurking in the shadows, was standing there again, like an ancient specter following him.
When I came in, there wasn't anyone else inside... he thought, his stomach tightening with an indefinable sense of danger.
Then something struck him with invisible force.
He felt a violent shove against his chest that hurled him backward. The restroom door slammed shut with such force that the sound echoed through the hallway. His right hand drenched in sweat, Raphaniè made the sign of the cross and muttered through clenched teeth, struggling to steady his breathing.
— My God... may he receive what he deserves.
He tried to walk away, but his foot caught on the carpet and he stumbled, falling with a groan just a few yards from the restroom door. His body ached, but what came next froze him to the core: a muffled, guttural scream, followed by a heavy thud and the unmistakable sound of something shattering, like porcelain smashing against stone.
THE LIGHTS CAME BACK ON, and the sudden brightness blinded him for a brief second. He struggled to his feet, his heart pounding against his ribs. He needed to return to the table and warn Saul, but something stronger—perhaps curiosity, perhaps instinct—made him hesitate.
He took a few steps, stopped, drew a deep breath, and returned to the restroom door.
He pushed it.
Locked.
He tried again, this time with greater force.
Suddenly the latch gave way, throwing him backward onto the floor.
The horror struck like a tidal wave.
Raphaniè's eyes widened, and a sharp scream ripped through the silence.
Baruch Hawkings lay face down on the floor, his head twisted at an impossible angle, his lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. Fragments of ceramic and shattered glass littered the floor. The sink had been completely destroyed, and jagged pieces of porcelain embedded in the lord's face and neck glistened beneath the cold fluorescent lights. Blood spread across the tiles, reflecting the light as though it were living paint.
The priest swallowed hard as his stomach churned.
His eyes swept across the room—the stalls, the mirror, the walls—searching desperately for any sign of the attacker.
Nothing.
No shadow.
No breathing.
He wanted to absorb every detail, to burn the gruesome image into his subconscious, as though understanding every element might somehow reveal meaning behind the massacre.
Instead, all he found was emptiness.
Two security officers came running, drawn by the scream.
The first was tall and powerfully built, with a prominent nose and thick lips. The second was shorter, with finer features and restless eyes.
— What happened here? — the taller man asked, freezing at the sight of the gruesome scene.
— The door was locked... I pushed it open and fell... When I got back up, he was already like this — Raphaniè stammered, climbing to his feet and trying to sound coherent despite his trembling voice.
— Call the police. Now — the taller guard ordered.
His partner nodded and sprinted away.
The priest could feel the weight of the man's suspicious gaze fixed upon him.
— When you arrived, was anyone else here besides the victim?
— No one. Absolutely no one.
The guard studied every word as though trying to uncover a lie hidden between the syllables.
— If you remember anything, come find me. For now, I need you to leave. This area must be secured. — He handed the priest a business card.
Raphaniè accepted it with trembling hands.
— I don't know anything you don't already know — he replied with a strained half-smile, his eyes drifting back toward the body.
— Very well. But if anything comes back to you, call me.
Silence settled between them.
— It was dark... maybe he slipped and hit his head... A tragic accident — Raphaniè murmured, almost as if trying to convince himself.
— From the looks of it, you know a thing or two about accidents — the guard replied, his eyes shifting toward the cut above the priest's left eyebrow.
— I'm a bit clumsy sometimes — the priest answered, casually touching the wound.
— Where are you from?
— Italy.
— A police officer?
— No. Just a simple priest — he replied with a carefully measured smile.
If he asks for my passport, I'm finished... he thought, struggling to keep his expression calm.
— Too bad you weren't here in time to administer the Last Rites, Father — the guard remarked with faint irony.
— May his soul be welcomed into Heaven and judged with justice — Raphaniè replied, making the sign of the cross before the corpse.
And may you burn in Hell for all eternity, he finished silently.
— You've done your duty, Father. You may go.
— I've got an upset stomach. Where can I find another restroom?
— I hope you have better luck this time — the guard replied, pointing toward the corridor on the right.
Raphaniè nodded and slowly turned on his heel.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
The distant murmur of the banquet hall contrasted sharply with the deathly silence he was leaving behind.
When he reached the other restroom, he stepped inside, locked the door, and leaned against it, breathing with difficulty.
He lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid, his entire body trembling.
His sweat-soaked hands could barely hold his phone.
He typed quickly and sent a message to Saul.
The glowing screen became the only fragile bridge between fear... and the truth.