⸻ ⸻ “Oh my God…” Father Damien froze at the threshold of the room. The air inside was thick, stale, carrying a smell he couldn’t place at first—old paint, dust, something metallic. The walls were lined with portraits, dozens of them, stacked and hung without order. Naked women. Some painted softly, others brutally honest. None looked willing. At the center of the room, on a low table, sat a human skull. Real. Father Damien’s breath caught in his throat. He took a step forward, drawn by a sick curiosity, when suddenly a large hand clamped onto his shoulder. His heart jolted. One of Arnold’s guards loomed behind him, eyes cold, unreadable. “N-nothing,” Father Damien stammered quickly. “I was… I was looking for Mr. Arnold.” The guard said nothing. He only shoved the door shut with finality, sealing the room—and its secrets—away. He hadn’t noticed the last portraits hidden at the back: images of a man and a woman, intimate, unmistakable. “I’ll… I’ll just go back to my seat a
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