London, England was known for it’s semi-quiet evenings. Sure, there were times that the city was sparked with life during the later hours, but this particular evening was more dull than the rest. It was no earlier than one in the morning, the shade of moonlit skies brandished an odd glow to the paved streets - a sense of silence, fondling the midnight’s aroma. Time seemed to slip past those wandering aimlessly, as this feeling of sanctum within the far-dawned streets grew ever late.

Father Donovan Colt, a Priest who worked for a local religious branch, had been called a child rapist. There were many alleged views, many people believed it to be true - in fact, some of those within the walls of his own job considered him such. It wasn’t hard to see the truth of the matter… His connections with politicians and religious ties had left him immune to allegations. No one could do anything lawfully. The rumors spread all over, it was on the news multiple times. The media ate it up, as it was a story.

“So, you’re positive?” A firm question, unwavering from the tone of voice which seemed to part coolly from his lips. ‘Cross’ was semi-leaned against the wall, staring at the distant lights of the cathedral no more than a mile from his current position. He’d been speaking to a few locals, asking questions about the man who was “a man of God”… Such a title, this man was not worthy of. The other who had been conversing with Richard nodded slightly, almost paranoid to be answering the question.

Well, this was quite the interesting slide of motive; a man who claimed to be a priest fed off lust from children. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to decipher the context - this “Donovan Colt” was rather clever when it came to hiding his shame, but things tend to be unfolded as circumstances rise which put them in a hostile spot. Hazel-lit eyes took in the setting… Huge doors, a marble brand establishment touching the skies above. It was a beautiful sight for such poor company inhabiting the junction, he thought.

A loose hand pushed against the doorway which immediately opened, the resonating creak of movement giving way of his entrance. Cross stepped forward into the building and stood intently, looking straight ahead at the large pillar of the holy cross; the very symbol of Catholic and Christian religion. Such a sight, assuring himself. Right hand moved upward, flicking what seemed to be a single silver piece within his hand, only to snatch it back into his palm a second later.

Booted feet sounded cold against a magenta floor, the countless seats all about the altar; this drove his attention back and forth to the surrounding area, then finally, returning to the cross ahead. “Father,” he spoke, his words echoing through the corridors of the non-lit sanctuary. Black-clad attire embracing his toned form as if a blanket; loose and lenient. His voice cooed malevolent, a soft though firm tone. “I need consul.”

Within a few moments, a man dressed in their traditional Priest’s attire motioned into the room - looking Cross up and down once before speaking. “It is late, my child. But I will accept your words. Please, approach the altar.” That voice ran smoothly in Cross’ mind - it was the one he sought, there was no doubting it. Having memorized that tone, that accent, from the very first time the man was questioned on live television in front of the courts hallway two blocks down the street.

On that note, Cross approached the lower section of the sanctuary and bowed his head. His eyes closed as well, and his lips curled into an unseen smirk under the hidden visage of his shaded appearance. It was late, the candles flickered restlessly against the soft coloring of his skin, though his eyes and face were still but a minor sight to the untrained eye. His words rang out again, softly. “I have done endless sin… And it continues this eve, Father.”

Colt glanced at the black-clad individual, nodding his head comfortably as he moved to sit on the bench in front of the altar - directly behind Cross. “We all sin, my child. What is it you seek forgiveness for?” The older man, Colt, had been a Priest for quite a while - ten years at the very least. He was close to his upper forties, rather chubby and “jolly” looking. It was your typical “too-rich” Catholic priest with enough time on their hands to do the dirtiest of wickedness.

“Murder.” Cross said, kneeling himself down before the altar while glancing upward at the cross above. The holy sight of the religious symbol shined brightly before him, almost as a keen eye watching his moves and motives. Right hand casually moved inside his jacket, the left side, and tapped subconsciously on the holstered 9mm police issued pistol which laid dormant.

The elder man looked a bit surprised at those words, uneasy, as he stuttered. “M-..Murder? Well, my child, that is muc--...” Before the Priest could continue to speak, the sound of a gun being set off safety resounded through the cathedral. Colt had wide-eyes, stunned at the sound. It was something he wasn’t used to, the sound of a firearm active and close by.

“What are your sins, Father? Do you fear retribution for the wickedness you’ve indulged?” That tone of voice was vicious. Lethal, even. They seeped through his lips as a venomous snake launching to its victim - the fangs of each letter in the sentence boiling with what could easily be mistaken as anger… But, for the record, truth had that effect on people who were too fearful to admit their sins.

“I…” Twitching, Donovan pushed himself hard against the stool and quickly tried to raise himself upward into a full motion run. The stomps of feet could be heard as the priest scrambled up the aisle toward the doorway, but even greater was the sound of a smoking gun. The whiplash boom, curling through the air as a line of smoke rippled across the edge of the barrel. Once the sound had ceased, the resonating pitch of Donovan Colt thudding against the ground became clear.

‘Cross’ had still been looking up at the golden cross above when the Priest was downed - a new hole in the far side of his jacket smoked vaguely. He released his grip on the pistol and closed his eyes to breath in deeply, an ominous smirk delving his lips. The man stood upright, turning on his booted feet and slowly made his ascent back toward the entrance of the cathedral. By now, the distant sound of sirens were heard among the darkness.

“Rest in peace, Father …” he said, speaking while wandering by the dormant body of a man who had been shot from the back of the head and almost perfectly through the frontal lobe. It was a dire shot - classic murder. Blood had quickly become noticeable on the walkway of the establishment, dripping from the man’s open gunshot and trickling down the marble floors. Ah, a new stain… the custodial staff would love that, Cross thought.

The night was still young, and as he stepped out of the cathedral, the man casually strolled into the midst of midnight glisten. There was no expression on his face, no emotional transfixion that stated he did something dirty. In his mind, it was truly a pleasure to lay in waste the type of person which made this world all the more dire. Shadows dwelled over his shade-clad figure, and thus, he’d be finding a new place of residence soon.