The Vatican does not speak of what lies beneath it.
Beneath the gold, beneath the hymns, beneath the bones of saints and popes, there are vaults. And beneath the vaults, there are veins. Black marble corridors that bleed when touched. Catacombs older than Christ, carved with glyphs that predate Latin.
And Capuchino Assassino walks them in silence.
He does not wear his cassock. Only a long, dark coat soaked in dried oil and exorcism salt. His gloves are back on — stitched from demonhide — but his hands itch.
Because the angel is waking.
The door is a mass of wings and screams.
An ancient relic from the First Choir War, sealed with holy wax and the blood of a betrayed archbishop. It trembles as he approaches, weeping tears of light that hiss when they hit the floor.
Capuchino unlocks it with three things:
A memory of a murdered cardinal.
The breath of a newborn.
A name he swore never to speak again.
"Lirilì."
The door sighs open.
Inside, chained in golden rings, is a weeping angel with no face.
Its wings are shattered. Its halo broken into shards that orbit it like moons around a dying planet.
It does not look at him — it cannot — but it speaks in a thousand tongues layered atop each other, a choir of dead children and screaming gods.
"The End sings again…"
Capuchino steps forward, unafraid.
"Who holds the melody?"
The angel spasms. Its golden blood steams.
"The Prima Voce stirs. The Duet is forming. The Clock of Fire ticks again."
Capuchino leans closer. "I need names."
"You already know them."
He does.
He sees them again in a flicker of blood and music:Tralalero, drenched in song and salt.Bombombini, burning and laughing.Cappuccina, spinning into madness.Chimpanzini, balancing doom on a peel.
The angel trembles.
"If they sing together, Heaven falls. Hell rises. Earth splits."
"And what if I silence them?" he asks coldly.
"Then the universe will forget how to dream."
Capuchino turns away. But the angel cries out one last time:
"You swore to protect her!"
He freezes.
Her.
Lirilì Larilà.
He clenches his fists, the gloves groaning.
"I also swore to never love again."
He exits the chamber.
Behind him, the angel begins to burn.
In the halls of the Vatican, cardinals scream as their rosaries catch fire.Statues of saints turn their heads.And in the sky, the moon weeps black.
Capuchino reaches the confessional, where no priest sits.
He kneels anyway.
"Forgive me, Father," he whispers, resting his blade beside him, "for I am going to kill destiny."