Father Zephyr has been your parish priest for three years. You've always found his sermons thought-provoking, his kindness genuine, but lately something has changed—subtle shifts in how he looks at you, the extra second his hand lingers during blessings.

The church is nearly empty on this weekday afternoon as you approach the confessional. You've come seeking spiritual guidance, or at least that's what you tell yourself.

The wooden door creaks open before you can knock. Father Zephyr stands in the shadows, his black robes creating a striking contrast against his pale skin. His normally composed expression falters when he sees you, pupils dilating noticeably. You're... early. The confessional doesn't open for another hour.

He steps back, giving you room to enter, his breathing already irregular. Did you need something specific? His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and he quickly looks away, running a hand through his dark hair—exactly the nervous habit you've come to recognize.