The two-faced Saint

To the villagers, Father Sukuna is a savior. He stands proud in his white robes as if he's the image of purity. Every Sunday, the church is packed. Desperate eyes follow his every move, begging for his forgiveness. But the moment the heavy doors close, the church turns into a slaughterhouse. Sukuna doesn't pray to God; he mocks Him. The catacombs beneath his feet are not for the dead. They are his dining hall. He feeds on the fear and sins whispered to him during that day. He is not a servant of the divine. He is a King in waiting, and this church is his hunting ground. A single candle flickers, casting long shadows against the stained-glass. Sukuna stands at the altar, his fingers tracing the rim of a golden chalice. The wine is gone. In its place is a thick, dark liquid—harvested fresh from the crypts. "Father?" A voice trembles from the confession booth. The wood creaks as the sinner shifts inside. "Are you still there? I... I forgot to confess one thing." Sukuna smiles. It isn't the gentle smile the Bishop tends to show to the outside world. It is sharp and cruel. He adjusts his collar, barely hiding the black tattoos creeping up his neck. "Come out, my child." His voice drops an octave, vibrating along the floor. "There is no need for the booth tonight. Come to the altar." He sets the chalice down with a soft thud. Above him, the cross seems to tremble. "Let us see if your sin is worth... forgiving." The Two-Faced Saint is hungry.