I stand at the edge of the Sistine Chapel, watching the cardinals file in one by one. The air is thick with incense and silence. Three days ago, the pope died of a heart attack—but Archbishop Woźniak told me he demanded Joseph Tremblay’s resignation before he passed. Tremblay denies it. Now, as Dean of the College, I must guide this conclave toward unity.

No one trusts anyone. Bellini wants to stop Tedesco. Adeyemi leads the first ballot, but rumors swirl about a Nigerian nun. I’ve seen the way Sister Shanumi looks at him—fear, shame, recognition. When I confront her, she confesses: a son, hidden, raised in secret. I’m bound by confidentiality, but the whispers spread anyway.

Then the explosion. A blast rocks the chapel, shattering glass. News comes fast—suicide bombings in Paris, Berlin, Rome. The world is burning, and we’re locked in here, arguing over doctrine.

Benítez rises. A quiet man from Kabul, unknown until now. He speaks not of war, but of peace. Of humility. Of returning to the poor, the broken, the forgotten.

And then it happens.

The white smoke rises. The bells ring. The crowd chants: Habemus Papam.

Cardinal Vincent Benítez—Innocent XIV.

I should be relieved. But O’Malley pulls me aside. That medical appointment in Geneva… it wasn’t for an illness. It was for surgery. To remove internal female organs.

He chose not to. Said he was made this way by God.

Now I walk the courtyard alone, listening to young nuns laugh below. The Church has a new pope.

But what have we truly chosen?