EVEN THOUGH HE WAS STAYING in one of the largest suites at L'oscar London, Raphaniè felt as though the air had grown thin, as if the gilded ceiling were slowly descending, compressing his lungs and crushing his soul. His heart beat unevenly, sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and the air conditioning seemed useless. To ease the claustrophobic sensation suffocating him, he tore off his jacket and shirt, letting them fall onto the Persian rug.
He walked over to the gray velvet sofa and collapsed onto it, his exhausted body stretched out on his back, his head resting against three silk cushions.
"You abandoned me when I needed you most, Father. You pushed me into this dead end."
The words, spoken months earlier, thundered through his mind. Until then, Raphaniè had believed he could erase them, as though they were merely another accusation among the countless ones he had heard in the confessional, but now they returned with almost demonic force, as if they had crossed time and space for the sole purpose of judging him.
He tried to push the memory away, but the weight of guilt became unbearable.
The priest suddenly rose, walked to the mahogany desk and opened the notebook at random. He needed to occupy his mind, to escape from himself, to immerse himself in something more rational.
He read softly, as if the words themselves might serve as an exorcism:
"He shall be the result of sexual intercourse between his mother and father, like other men, and not of a solitary virgin. He shall be wholly conceived in sin, begotten in sin and brought forth in sin — the fruit of a lost and impure woman and an abominable outlaw..."
The words seemed to vibrate throughout the suite, as though spoken by an invisible voice.
Raphaniè closed his eyes and, against his will, saw Jessyca's face.
He remembered the first time he had met her — a little girl with clear eyes and a gentle laugh, an angel clothed in innocence. He could never have imagined that the child who had made him smile when he no longer believed in redemption would grow into the woman described in the prophecies: the Great Whore, the "lost and impure woman."
The word lost seemed to leap from the page, lodge itself inside his mind and spin like a blade.
"You abandoned me when I needed you most, Father. You pushed me into this dead end."
The voice returned — clearer now, and crueler.
A shiver ran through the Jesuit's body from head to toe. He looked toward the window and, beyond the stained glass, the London sky stretched beneath layers of leaden gray and mist.
Everything seemed dead.
— No! — he murmured hoarsely. — You followed your own will... and soon you will understand the evil you caused.
The words echoed through the dimness of the room.
A moment later, he understood the terrible magnitude of what he had said — not to her, but to himself.
He felt the weight of sin materialize upon his shoulders and collapsed to his knees. He covered his face with both hands, overwhelmed by an ancient and profound shame.
His eyes burned, and he desperately wanted to cry, but the tears betrayed him, refusing to fall.
He swallowed hard.
Something seemed to block his throat, a knot that would not loosen.
He coughed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times — until the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.
When he opened his eyes, he saw red stains on the marble floor.
— No! — he shouted, his voice dry and almost unrecognizable. — It's my fault...
The echo of his cry vanished into the silence of the suite.
Suddenly, he remembered the words of Aleister Crowley, the accursed magician:
"God and the devil fought for three days over my soul. In the end, God won. But who was God?"
The doubt pierced his mind like a stake.
Which one was God?
Raphaniè coughed again and felt his body weakening.
He staggered toward the bed, his knees trembling. He knelt, clasped his hands together and bowed his head in supplication.
— Is this the sin against the Holy Spirit? — he murmured, his voice breaking. — Is this the unforgivable sin?
No answer came.
Only the distant sound of rain against the glass.
Desperate, he sprang to his feet and rushed toward the private bar. He seized the bottle of eighteen-year-old Talisker, opened it without thinking and drank in long gulps until the liquid burned his throat.
He swallowed nearly a third of the bottle and, in a burst of fury, hurled it against the wall.
The glass shattered into a thousand pieces.
— You abandoned me! — he roared like a man possessed.
He grabbed the ice pick resting beside the silver, leather-wrapped bucket.
He felt the cold weight of the metal in his palm and muttered through clenched teeth:
— And now... you condemn me.
He walked slowly toward the master suite, his face pale, his eyes empty.
The silence seemed to amplify every footstep, like the ticking of a clock about to stop.
In that moment, he realized there was no hope left, no mercy, no forgiveness possible.
His gaze settled on the white bathtub in the center of the bathroom.
It gleamed beneath the diffused light like a sacrificial altar.
In his mind, it was no longer a bathtub — it was the condemned man's final wish, the stage for his last confession, the scaffold and, at last, the coffin.
He drew a deep breath and took one step forward.