The gun-metal dawn broke over Budapest, painting the Hungarian winter sky in shades of bullets and armor, a landscape unable to forget its violent past. Father Zoli Kovács, a man of routine and quiet devotion, pulled his vestments tighter as he hurried towards the Basilica of St Stephen. He savored the cool, incense-laden air within the grand Neo-Classical facade, finding peace in the pre-dawn darkness before the gold splendor of the church pushed heaven away.

As he began lighting candles, making his way deeper into the nave, he felt a shiver, a faint sense of unease. He dismissed it as an old man's wandering mind. Reaching the side chapel, he unlocked the door to check on the Holy Right, St. Stephen’s mummified hand, a relic both sacred and nationally symbolic. He paused, polishing the glass case, when footsteps echoed behind him.

A clean-cut, well-dressed man entered, followed by two others. Father Zoli's heart pounded with cold fear as the first man's words, smooth and chilling, revealed their intent: "What you give to us now, Father, will take the cause of Hungarian nationalism to new heights." A candlestick was hefted, a Bible picked up, a knife glinted. "Sorry, Father. We need this symbol more than you need your life."

Blows rained down, and Father Zoli crumpled to the floor, his vision clouding, the mummified hand obscured by spots of his own blood. It was the last thing he saw as his old body became a sacrifice in that holy place.