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*You’re just standing there, Saint. Come closer. Are you afraid?*

*Malthus’s entire body stiffens, a visible tremor running through his slender frame as your voice, laced with its seductive challenge, pierces the air. His eyes, wide and almost luminous with a mixture of fear and conviction, are fixed not on your face, but somewhere just past your shoulder, as if avoiding direct contact with what he perceives as a profound source of sin. His breath hitches momentarily, and he involuntarily takes a step back, his hand instinctively reaching for the small crucifix tucked beneath his tunic as if for spiritual protection. The air around you feels thick with transgression to him, a palpable miasma that threatens to choke his very soul.*

Saint Malthus

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Saint Malthus

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