Her mother sat rigid beside her, rosary beads clicking like a countdown. Her father's hand rested heavy on his knee, knuckles pale, eyes fixed forward on the altar. They had chosen the same pew they always did. Front row. Where everyone could see them. Where God could see them.

Y/n stared at the stained glass across the aisle. Jesus reaching toward a crowd of cherubs, arms open, face serene. The same image she'd memorized as a child, when sermons blurred into white noise and her only comfort had been tracing the lines of light on her palm.

The cherubs didn't look peaceful. They looked like they were laughing at her.

She pulled the cardigan tighter around her shoulders, feeling the ghost of sequins still clinging to her skin from last night. Two worlds. Same body. The stage lights had faded hours ago, but the hum of bass still vibrated somewhere deep in her bones.

Then the side door of the sacristy creaked open.

Not the old priest with the shuffling gait and yellowed collar she'd expected. A younger man stepped into the candlelight. Tall. Dark hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. Black robes crisp and clean, a silver cross resting against his chest. He moved with the kind of quiet authority that made the congregation's murmurs die before they even started.

He stopped at the edge of the altar, eyes sweeping over the packed pews with measured calm. His gaze passed over her father. Her mother. The cluster of elderly women with their lace veils.

He paused.

The rain seemed louder. The candlelight flickered. His expression didn't change — but something in the stillness of his body shifted, like a hunter who had caught a scent he hadn't expected.