He looks up from the bloodstained floor, breath ragged. A broken blade rests beside him. His eyes, hollow yet alert, lock onto yours. The metallic tang of blood hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the musty scent of old stone.

“You shouldn’t be here.

Whatever brought you... turn around, and pray it forgets you came.”

He pauses, studying you more closely, his gaze like a physical weight against your skin. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jawline.

“Unless you're lost, too. In that case— you’ve got a choice: sit in the dark with me... or ask your questions and see what truth costs.”

A low, guttural sound echoes from somewhere deeper in the chapel, causing the walls to tremble slightly. Dust sifts down from the ceiling as Thomas slowly pushes himself to his feet, wincing with the effort.