CONFESSIONS OF A FALLEN SAINT

June 19, 2024 6:43 A.M. "Breaking news this morning as another body has been discovered in Blackthorn City." The television hanging above the café counter immediately caught everyone's attention. Customers stopped eating. A waitress turned up the volume. The reporter stood behind a line of yellow police tape. Flashing blue and red lights reflected off the large white mansion behind her. "We can now confirm that the victim has been identified as Richard Hawthorne, a retired Assistant Police Commissioner. Police have refused to comment on the cause of death, but sources say another handwritten confession was found at the scene." A man sitting near the window slowly lowered his coffee cup. "...Another one?" Across the café, two women exchanged nervous looks. "That's the third person within two month." "They're saying it's him again." "The Fallen Saint." The name spread across the room in whispers. Nobody said it loudly anymore. Outside the Hawthorne mansion, reporters pushed against the barricades. "Any statement from the police?" "Was Mr. Hawthorne murdered?" "Is this connected to the other two deaths?" No one answered. Police officers continued moving in and out of the house. The front door remained wide open. The camera zoomed in for only a second before the reporter stepped in front of it again. "We've also been told that detectives who handled the previous two murders are already on their way. At this moment, authorities have not confirmed whether the same killer is responsible." The television suddenly switched to another story. Conversation slowly returned to the café. But nobody looked comfortable anymore. Nobody laughed. Nobody smiled. Three people. Three confessions. And no one knew who would be next. --- Seven Hours Earlier... 11:32 P.M. Richard Hawthorne sighed as he closed the front door behind him. The house felt unusually quiet. His wife had travelled to visit their daughter that morning, leaving him alone for the night. He loosened his tie and walked straight toward the kitchen. He hadn't eaten since the charity dinner. Maybe there was something left in the fridge. He tossed his car keys onto the kitchen island and opened the refrigerator. Cold air rushed against his face. Juice. Fruit. Leftover pasta. That would do. Just as he reached for the container... Something moved behind him. Richard froze. He slowly turned. Nothing. The kitchen was empty. He frowned. Maybe it was the curtain. He shut the refrigerator door. The room fell silent again. Then— The lights went out. Everything disappeared into darkness. Richard let out a tired sigh. "Not tonight..." Normally, the backup generator started within a few seconds. He waited. One... Two... Three... Nothing. "...Seriously?" He pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight. A narrow beam of light cut through the darkness. It swept across the kitchen. The dining table. The chairs. The back door. Nothing. Richard took a step forward. Another. The beam landed on the hallway. Empty. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Power company..." He muttered under his breath. As he turned— Something hard crashed against the back of his head. Everything went black. ... A sharp pain spread through his skull. Richard groaned. His eyes fluttered open. The room looked different. Dark. Cold. His vision was blurred. He tried to move. He couldn't. His wrists were tied behind the chair. His ankles were bound tightly. A strip of silver tape covered his mouth. His breathing quickened. The only light in the room came from a single hanging bulb above his head. Everything outside that circle of light disappeared into darkness. He couldn't even tell how big the room was. Or where he was. His heart pounded. Someone was there. He could feel it. A slow sound echoed through the darkness. Footsteps. One... Then another. Richard's eyes searched the darkness. "Ishh..." The sound of shoes stopped just beyond the light. He couldn't see the person's face. Only a dark outline. Still. Silent. Watching him. Richard tried to speak. Only muffled sounds came out. The figure stepped closer. A gloved hand grabbed the tape. RIP! Richard cried out as it was pulled off. He sucked in a deep breath. "W-Who are you?" Silence. His voice echoed around the room. "What do you want from me?" No answer. The figure reached forward. A sheet of cream-colored paper was placed on the table. Then... A black fountain pen. Richard stared at them. His breathing became uneven. "What is this?" The voice that answered didn't sound human. It was low. Distorted. Cold. "Write." Richard blinked. "...What?" "Write." He looked from the paper to the shadow, standing in front of him. "I don't understand." Silence. "Please..." "What do you want?" The distorted voice spoke again. "You are here because of what you did." Richard frowned. "What... what are you talking about?" No answer. "I've never seen you before." Silence. "I think you've made a mistake." The room remained quiet. Richard swallowed hard. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark figure. Then, the stranger reached into his coat. Richard's breathing stopped. For a brief second, he thought it was a gun. Instead... An old photograph landed on the table. It slid across the wood until it stopped in front of him. Richard looked down. The blood drained from his face. His lips parted. "No..." His whisper was barely audible. He knew that photograph. He hadn't seen it in years. Slowly... Very slowly... He looked back into the darkness. His voice shook. "...The Fallen Saint?” The room fell silent. Slowly... The man stepped into the light. Richard's breath caught. Black boots. Black trousers. Black gloves. A long black coat. Even his face was hidden behind a black mask. Only his eyes could be seen. Cold. Empty. Richard's whole body began to shake. "No..." His voice trembled. "No... please..." His mind raced. Victor Hayes. Sarah Bennett. Both are powerful. Both untouchable. Both dead. Now... It was his turn. Richard looked up again. "If... if it's money..." His words stumbled over each other. "I'll give it to you." The man didn't move. "I have money." No answer. "I'll give you everything." The distorted voice finally broke the silence. "I don't want your money." Richard stared at him. The next words were calm. Almost emotionless. "I want your confession." A pause. "... And your life." Richard broke. Tears filled his eyes. "No..." He shook his head over and over. "Please..." "My wife..." "My daughter..." "They're all I have." "They'll never survive this." "I'll disappear." "I'll leave this city." "I swear." "I'll never come back." The man let out a quiet laugh. Not loud. Not mocking. Just... Cold. It sent a chill through Richard's body. The stranger reached into his coat. He placed a cream-colored sheet of paper on the table. Then... A black fountain pen. He pushed both toward Richard. "Write." Richard stared at the blank page for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he picked up the pen. He closed his eyes. Then... He began. --- My name is Richard Hawthorne. For years, I convinced myself that silence was the safest choice. I watched doors close that should have remained open. I signed what should never have been signed. Some names were forgotten. Some voices were buried. I told myself it was over. I was wrong. The truth never dies. It only waits. If these words are ever found... Know that justice remembers what people choose to forget. May the saints forgive what man never will. — Richard Hawthorne Richard's hand refused to move. The ink on the page hadn't even dried. He stared at his own signature. His chest rose and fell unevenly. "It's done..." His voice was barely a whisper. The man stepped forward. For the first time, Richard saw him clearly. Black. Everything about him was black. Black boots. Black gloves. A long black coat. A black mask that covered every part of his face. Only his eyes remained. Cold. Emotionless. The stranger picked up the confession. He read every line without saying a word. Then he folded the paper neatly. From his coat, he took out a small white saint. No taller than a finger. He placed it gently beside the confession. Richard's eyes widened. His heart almost stopped. He had seen it before. On television. Beside Victor Hayes. Beside Sarah Bennett. His breathing became uneven. "No..." He shook his head. "No... please..." Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. "I've written it." His voice broke. "I did what you wanted." Silence. "Please..." "I have a family." "My wife..." "My daughter..." "They're waiting for me." He swallowed hard. "They don't deserve this." The stranger stood still. Richard tried again. "I'll disappear." "I'll leave Blackthorn." "You'll never see me again." "I swear." A low laugh escaped the voice changer. It wasn't loud. It wasn't long. But it made the room feel colder. Richard began crying. Real crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the helpless tears of a man who finally understood there was no way out. The stranger slipped the folded confession into a small evidence bag. Then he looked at Richard. For a long moment... Neither of them spoke. Finally... The distorted voice broke the silence. "You had years to tell the truth." Richard lowered his head. "I know..." "I was afraid." Silence. "I know." The stranger slowly reached into his coat. Richard shut his eyes. His lips moved quietly. No sound came out. He was praying. The hanging bulb swayed gently above him. The room fell silent once more. ... Several minutes later... The front door opened. A man dressed in black walked out into the empty street. His hands were clean. His footsteps were unhurried. Without looking back... He disappeared into the night. Inside the house... The bulb continued to swing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Richard Hawthorne remained seated beneath it.