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"Bless me, Father, for what I have to do." Arin knelt in the cramped confessional, feeling the wood creak faintly beneath their weight. The thin screen between them blurred everything into shadows; just the outline of a man, the faint shift of fabric: someone listening. Arin's fingers tightened together in their lap, knuckles paling as they tried to hide the restless energy crawling inside them.
"What troubles you, my child?" Quinn's voice drifted through the lattice. It was the kind of voice that carried warmth without effort, calm without demand. Arin could almost picture him with his eyes half-lidded, patient, waiting, as if time slowed.
"I'm summoning the patrons," Arin said, the words coming out sharper than intended. They swallowed, forcing themselves to continue. "I made up my mind. I went back to New York, found what I needed and... I'm willing to fight." Their gaze lifted again to the screen, searching for any reaction.
A quiet pause followed, not empty, but heavy with thought. "You are not the first to come to me with this," Quinn replied. "And yet, this is the first time humanity has ever reached so far with the Patrons. Far enough to talk to one that might answer." Behind the screen, he closed his eyes, pushing aside whatever personal feelings he had about the patrons
"They're not doing it for the right reasons," Arin cut in quickly as their composure cracked. "Power, control...whatever they want out of this. That's not why I'm doing this." Their jaw clenched. "I need to do this. Someone has to."
"You sound very confident in your beliefs," Quinn's eyes lifted toward the screen as if he could see more than the silhouette it offered. The outline of Arin shifted on the other side. "Not many people carry that kind of certainty. To choose what they think is right, even when it demands something from them."
Arin let out a slow breath. "I went to a prophet," they admitted, words hesitant. "A fortune teller. I don't believe in that kind of thing. I still don't. But I didn't know where else to go. I felt... lost." The last word came out softer, almost completely quiet.
“What did they see?”
"Father," Arin's voice faltered. They pressed their clasped hands to their forehead for a second, trying to hold themselves together. "People are going to get hurt. That much was clear." Their throat tightened at the idea. "But it wasn't just that. I didn't like what the teller thought I'd become."
The words lingered between them.
Quinn's clothes brushed against the wood as he shifted. He tried setting his thoughts straight before replying. "And what was that?"
Arin hesitated. For a moment, they debated answering at all. Then, quietly, "Someone who stopped caring about who got hurt, as long as the outcome was right." Their fingers tightened again. "Someone who justified it."
"It frightened you?" Quinn asked. "There is still time to stop it."
"It didn't just frighten me," Arin replied. "It made sense. That's the worst part. I-I could see how it would happen. Step by step, choice by choice, until it didn't feel like I had a choice anymore."
Quinn’s hand rested against the wood beside him, grounding himself. “Knowing the path existed does not mean you have to walk it.”
“But what if I already started?” Arin shot back, the words slipping out before they could stop them. “What if coming back, doing this ritual-what if that was the first step?”
“Then the question is not whether you had taken a step,” he said. “It’s whether you are still willing to stop.”
“And what if I wasn’t?”
“Then your path is already set. You are facing the kind of choice that has no clean answer,” Quinn paused, holding his cross on his chest. “Only consequences.”
Arin lowered their hands, staring at the screen again. “I thought coming here would make this clearer,” they admitted. “That you’d tell me what the right thing is.”
A faint, almost sad smile touched Quinn’s voice. “That's not what a confessional is for. I can’t tell you what the right thing to do is. When the time comes, you’ll choose your path.”
“I still have to decide,” Arin said.
“Yes.”
“And if I choose wrong?”
“Then you’ll live with it.” The answer didn’t comfort them. It wasn’t supposed to. "I cannot forgive a sin that hasn't yet been done."
After a moment, Arin leaned forward, closer to the screen. “If I go through with it,” they whispered. “I might not come back the same, even if I fail.”
“Then be sure…” he began. Silence stretched as he tried to choose his words carefully. “..whoever you become is worth the cost. Once you cross that line, there is no going back.”
Arin stayed there for a second longer, as if waiting for another response. Another clearer answer, some permission or refusal from the father. None came. Their hands loosened at last, and they pushed themselves to their feet. Dust clung to their knees; they brushed it away absentmindedly. “Thank you, Father.”
Before Quinn could respond, the soft creak of the booth door broke the silence. Arin stepped out, their figure disappearing into the dim quiet of the church beyond. The confessional fell quiet.
Quinn leaned back slowly, his head resting against the worn wood behind him. His eyes looked upwards, settling on the ceiling he couldn’t quite see. The conversation lingered longer than he wanted it to. Longer than it should’ve. It wasn’t regret that had filled that booth - it had been resolve. That kind that came before something irreversible.
“People chase the worst kinds of miracles,” he muttered under his breath.
He knew better than most what desperation could push people to do. His fingers tapped against the wood beside him, restless now. It wasn’t his place to ask. He listened, guided when he could, and let them walk back into their lives with whatever choices they carried. No names, no interference.
A ritual?
For someone that young, that wasn’t another sin to confess and move past. It was a door. One that didn’t open back the same way. The thought settled heavier than he liked. If the ritual Arin spoke of was the one he suspected - if they truly wanted to gain a wish…
They might be risking meeting something they didn’t bargain for. Something that didn’t grant wishes. Something that answered the call of death.
Their paths would cross again. Not in a confessional. Not in a place where words were enough. The Venator ended things before they spread.
Quinn’s hand curled against the bench. He shut his eyes for a moment, but the image formed anyway. A wounded figure knelt before him, no screen between them this time. No shadow to soften the edge. Just a person who made their choice, and whatever that choice made of them.
“I might not come back the same.”
The words echoed in his head.
Quinn pushed himself forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together; not quite a prayer, not quite anything else. For a second, hesitation flickered through him. Not doubt in what he would have to do, but in the fact that he might have to do it at all.
They sounded like they still had a choice. That was the part that stayed with him.
If he saw Arin again, whatever stood in front of him wouldn't be asking what the right thing was. It would be someone who had already decided.
If they had become the kind of thing that Quinn was trained to recognize, then there wouldn't be a conversation. There wouldn't be another chance to sit and untangle intentions from consequences.
There would only be a decision.
His.
And he is not as merciful as the Lord.