SITTING IN THE PASSENGER SEAT, Raphaniè remained with his head bowed, his body hunched as though carrying the weight of every sin in the world. His right hand covered his eyes in a gesture of penance and shame.
Saul cleared his throat, trying to break the suffocating silence inside the car, but the priest didn't react. The distant sound of rain striking the windshield seemed to set the rhythm of a confession that would never come.
At last, the journalist took the initiative.
— We're going to my house.
Raphaniè drew a deep breath and murmured, as though the name burned his lips.
— Her name was Sabrina, Saul...
His voice trembled, almost too softly to hear.
— You don't have to confess your sexual secrets to me, Father — the journalist replied with a wry smile. — If I started listing all the women I've been with, my penance would keep me kneeling in a confessional for weeks. What matters now is that Gregory Evans officially joins our list of possible suspects in Hawkings' murder. After all... where was he when Hawkings died?
— He said he had an appointment — the priest answered, avoiding his friend's gaze.
— What kind of appointment? With whom?
— I... I honestly have no idea.
— And that's exactly where we need to focus. — Saul's eyes remained fixed on the road while his mind assembled connections. — A police officer doesn't pay for luxury hotel suites. The numbers simply don't add up.
— Maybe he also hired the actress who pretended to be possessed at Temple Church... — Raphaniè suggested, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
— Exactly. And the worst part is, if that's true, he's already two steps ahead of us.
The car glided through London's rain-soaked streets as Saul spoke with the measured cadence of a man weaving together a dangerous theory.
— During our second meeting, you told me the enemy already knew we were working together and was preparing a siege against me. A siege is the oldest and cruelest strategy in warfare. Its purpose isn't to defeat the enemy through force—it's to wear him down through exhaustion. And I think that's exactly what they've done to you.
— What do you mean? — the priest asked, puzzled.
— Putting a priest in a luxury hotel like L'oscar London is a subtle but remarkably effective way of eroding his resistance. Temptation is always strongest when it disguises itself as comfort. Your downfall, Father, was far more certain than any physical attack like the one at Temple Church. Right now, you're so consumed by your own mistake that you've forgotten your real mission.
— But the sin... — Raphaniè tried to explain.
— Sin? — Saul interrupted firmly. — You're allowing guilt to replace purpose. Every one of us makes mistakes. That's precisely what makes us human—not unworthy.
The journalist glanced at him, studying his face.
— Have you ever heard of the Dunning-Kruger Effect?
— I have no idea what that is.
— It's the theory that the less people know about something, the more convinced they are that they understand it. An illusion of competence — Saul explained as the headlights carved shifting shadows across the rain-covered windows. — And our enemies know exactly how to exploit it. They want us to believe we're in control, when in reality we're nothing more than pawns.
Raphaniè managed a bitter smile.
— In my world, that has another name.
— And what would that be?
— Temptation.
Saul laughed.
— That's a good definition. I just prefer to call it psychological manipulation. And that's exactly what they're using against us, Father.
For a moment, only the hum of the engine filled the silence.
— That... actually makes sense — the priest murmured.
— Then listen carefully. The world keeps turning. Time never stops. And God, if He's watching, already knows we've failed. The difference lies in who chooses to keep fighting.
The priest nodded, though his eyes remained distant.
— The Devil's chosen one is already dead.
— Yes... but the cult isn't. Do you honestly believe everything ends with the death of the Ipsissimus?
Raphaniè took a slow breath.
— Everything depended on him...
— And if my theory is correct, whatever was in Baruch Hawkings' hands has now passed to the American leader.
— Hell's Plan B... — the priest whispered.
— No one goes to war intending to lose — Saul replied firmly.
— So you're telling me they can still bring about the Dark Apocalypse?
— I have no doubt. — The journalist's voice remained calm. — Worse still... it may already be underway.
The priest turned toward him, alarmed.
— In the Book of Enoch, Armon is the mountain where the rebellious angels swore allegiance to Samyaza, isn't that right?
— Yes.
— After making that dark covenant, they chose women...
— ...and lay with them — Raphaniè finished, feeling his throat go dry.
— Exactly. And from those unions came the Nephilim. The Stem of Jesse, mentioned in the riddle... doesn't it belong to Christ's genealogy?
— Isaiah's prophecy — the priest confirmed.
— Then listen carefully. The cult's victims were young... beautiful... their abdomens opened... their hearts removed... their organs mutilated... — Saul listed each detail with a clinical precision that made the horror even more disturbing. — It's the same symbolic pattern.
— And what does that mean?
— Sex between angels and women. Blood... a sacred bloodline... They're not merely killing people.
They're trying to create something.
Raphaniè shuddered.
— They want to give the Devil a son.
— Or, in theological terms... to bring the Antichrist into the world.
— But how could they possibly accomplish that?
— I believe through an Enochian ritual written by John Dee, passed down to Hawkings' ancestor... and now in the Americans' possession.
— The Book of the Silver Leaves... — the priest whispered. — They say it was written by the Devil himself.
— I've been dreaming about it, Father. Its pages are filled with symbols I still can't understand.
— If you're right, Saul, we have to find it... and destroy it.
— I agree... but right now we have another priority.
The journalist parked the Tesla inside the garage of his mansion on Hampstead Street, a discreet fortress surrounded by ivy-covered stone walls.
— You're going to help me write an article about Baruch Hawkings' death.
He shut off the engine.
— It goes to print tomorrow...
— ...and it will mark the beginning of the war.