The Grim Reaper stood there, rigid as a statue. Father Yorkes studied him for a moment.
Clearly the man had come only to apologize: he would pay for the damage to the church, and he would wipe out the Grizzly Gang responsible.
Exactly the style of a top-tier assassin.
Under the circumstances, what else could York say? With no commission on the table, he had no intention of getting involved in ordinary blood feuds—bullying mortals was simply too dull.
York could only answer, "All right, John. Farewell."
"Mm." John Wick gave a curt nod and walked unhurriedly toward the door.
He was almost outside when a voice sounded behind him; reflexively he stopped.
"John! Don't die. If you ever run out of things to do, come work here—I'm short-staffed."
John Wick's pupils contracted. A top assassin, he had his own channels, and he knew exactly how powerful the Church was.
A post at Pluto Church—so feared that even Winston refused to speak its name—was as good as a real-life get-out-of-death-free card.
"Father, when did you start recruiting?"
Without turning, York replied calmly, "Only recently. Today I signed my first employee."
"Father, if that day comes, I'll consider it seriously."
Still devoid of emotion, John Wick finished speaking and left, vanishing from sight—decisive to the end, not a wasted word.
York watched him go and sighed softly; ever since he'd stepped into the supernatural, the ordinary world felt distant.
"Might as well head back."
He packed up, slung his usual satchel over his shoulder, and strolled out of the church.
Before leaving, remembering the state of the nave, he hung a sign on the door: "Gone to procure supplies—please forgive the wait." Regular parishioners would otherwise waste hours looking for him.
Exorcisms kept him busy; he'd prepared a whole set of signs: "Away for days—please forgive," "Urgent business—please forgive"… The night passed without incident.
The next morning, before York could set out for his big shopping trip, his phone rang—the delivery driver.
"Good morning, Father Yorkes. The goods Mr. John ordered for you have arrived; please come receive them."
"…"
According to the driver, the pews and church ornaments John Wick had ordered that morning were now sitting at the gate.
York' mouth curved. Last night's rigid assassin came to mind.
It seemed the man had already carved through the Grizzly Gang; how many bodies he'd left behind was anyone's guess. "Wait for me—on my way."
"Very well, Father."
"…"
Two large trucks stood parked directly in front of the church, impossible to miss.
Around them, familiar parishioners and neighbors were already unloading; word of last night's events had spread, and they'd come to help.
No doubt some early arrivals had seen the trucks and started rallying the troops.
"Father Yorkes, you're here!"
"Good morning, Father."
"…"
York beamed.
"Good morning, everyone."
"…"
With the volunteers' help, the church was soon spotless, yesterday's chaos erased.
To thank them, York—though he usually found it a chore—held a rare Mass.
Mass is one of the Church's most important rites, the chief way the faithful commune with God, seek solace and guidance.
He seldom bothered, but today he made the effort.
First, he gave the opening address and led the congregation in worship.
Together they confessed their sins, asking God's forgiveness or offering prayers.
Next came Scripture readings and hymns—the part the faithful loved most; those who sang well earned hearty applause. Even believers enjoy a little vanity.
Finally, the Eucharist: bread and wine transformed into the body and blood of Jesus Christ, following the pattern of the Last Supper.
This last step fostered the warmest fellowship among the parishioners.
Watching their delighted faces, York suspected they'd formed a group chat behind his back.
Before he could ponder further, a furtive figure slipping through the door captured his full attention.
A girl in a red hooded sweatshirt and shorts, radiating youthful energy, hugged a laptop to her chest—Hailey, the reckless kid who planned to single-handedly take on a perverted man-eating demon.
Brave little maniac, York thought. Seeing her glance around, he excused himself to the parishioners and waved her over.
Meanwhile, Hailey—hunting the priest who'd stabbed her in the back—caught sight of his wave, eyes lighting up.
Rest room.
Big and small stared at the laptop on the table.
"See? Told you—he's a sicko." Hailey tapped the chat log onscreen.
Father Yorkes' face darkened.
The messages showed her recent conversations with the pervert.
She'd played the innocent Little Red Riding Hood; he was the wolf, constantly steering the talk toward twisted topics.
It confirmed her suspicion: he was a pedophile.
She glanced at the priest's grim expression and, as if it weren't incriminating enough, scrolled to even cruder messages.
York snatched the mouse, stopped her, and scrolled back to the latest date.
"Child, I believe you—he's a pervert. But this alone doesn't prove he murdered your friend."
Hailey's face cooled; she understood. "That's why I'm going solo to find proof."
She moved to close the laptop, but York spotted the newest entry and blocked her, frowning.
"You're meeting him tomorrow?"
She didn't deny it, pulled her hand away, and snapped it shut.
"Right. No one believes me, so I'll handle it myself."
At her reckless words York' mouth twitched. He was about to retort when a prompt finally triggered.
[Random Quest Triggered]
[Clean-Up the Pervert]
[Help Hailey find evidence]
[Success Reward: +1 Point]
[Accept?]