The confession box sat in the center of the dust-choked room like a tombstone waiting for a name. Leo's heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that seemed to sync with the settling of the ancient stone around them. The immediate violence of the sledgehammer had stopped, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt like it was pressing the air out of his lungs.
Miller wasn't swinging anymore. He was standing perfectly still, his shadow stretched long and jagged against the broken plaster. He was staring at the leather-bound journal in Leo's hand with an intensity that made the hair on Leo's neck stand up.
"Is that... from 1946?" Miller asked. His voice wasn't the rough, gravelly growl Leo was used to. It was low, hollow, and possessed a strange tremor—like a man seeing a ghost he thought he'd buried decades ago.
"I think so," Leo said. He took a slow step back, his boots crunching on shards of limestone.
Before Miller could move, Leo's flashlight swept over the interior of the confession box one last time. He noticed something the foreman had missed. On the side panel, hidden behind a layer of grime, was a small, circular indentation—the exact size of a student's signet ring.
The Golden Hawks, Leo thought. This wasn't just a religious box; it was an Academy locker. He pressed his thumb into the notch, and a tiny "click" echoed. A false panel at the base of the seat slid open, revealing a stack of envelopes tied with a black ribbon. Each one was addressed to a different member of the 1946 Board of Directors.
"Don't touch those," Miller warned, his voice turning cold.
"Mr. Miller, we need to call the Headmaster," Leo insisted, his voice trembling. "There's a stain on the floor of this box... it looks like blood. This isn't just a renovation anymore. This is a crime scene."
Miller didn't look at the blood. He wiped his calloused, dusty palms on his stained overalls and took a slow, deliberate step forward. The light from his industrial lantern cast a sickly yellow glow over his features, making his eyes look like two dark pits.
"Listen to me, Leo. Think about why you're here," Miller said, his voice suddenly turning oily and sweet—the kind of kindness that felt like a trap. "You're a smart kid. You're the 'Scholar-Handyman.' You want that degree, right? You want to be the first one from your neighborhood to actually graduate from St. Jude's?"
Leo nodded slowly, his fingers white-knuckled around the silver crucifix he'd found. The metal was still warm, a strange, thrumming heat that felt like a warning pulse.
"Then you put that book back," Miller whispered, stepping closer until Leo could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. "You put it back, we wall this room up, and I go straight to the Board. I tell them you're the most loyal worker I've ever had. I'll make sure your tuition is covered. No more scrubbing floors at 3:00 AM. You'll be one of them, Leo. A Golden Hawk. All for the price of one dusty old book."
It was the ultimate bribe. But as Leo looked at Miller, he saw a bead of sweat roll down the man's temple despite the freezing air. Miller wasn't being generous; he was desperate.
"What's in the book, sir?" Leo asked, his voice steadier than he felt. "If it's just an old diary, why did they plaster over it?"
Miller's face twisted. The friendly mask slipped, revealing a flash of raw, jagged hunger. "It's a debt, boy! A debt that's been collecting interest since before your father was born. Now, give it here before things get... complicated."
Suddenly, a metallic clang echoed from the pipes above. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. It sounded like something with very long nails was dragging itself through the ventilation shafts. Miller spun around, his lantern swinging wildly.
Leo didn't wait. He lunged for the dark, jagged gap behind the confession box—a narrow crawlspace intended for Victorian-era plumbing. He scrambled inside, the rough stone biting into his palms.
"Leo!" Miller's voice was now a low, guttural snarl. "You're making a mistake that's going to last a very, very long time."
Leo ignored him, clicking on his flashlight. The beam cut through decades of thick, gray cobwebs that clung to his face like cold silk. He crawled faster until his hand hit something soft. It was the journal; it had fallen open.
A loose, sepia-toned photograph slid out. Leo's flashlight beam trembled as it hit the image. It was the 1946 renovation crew. In the back row was a man with a heavy jaw and a jagged, lightning-bolt scar over his left eyebrow.
He didn't look like Miller's father. He was Miller. The exact same scar. The exact same predatory eyes. But the photo was dated eighty years ago.
Scritch. Scritch. The sound wasn't in the pipes anymore. It was right behind him.
Leo spun around. Miller wasn't at the entrance. He was already inside. Despite his massive frame, the foreman was moving through the narrow gap with an impossible, fluid grace, his body contorting in ways that should have snapped bone.
"The photo is a souvenir, Leo," Miller whispered, his face appearing in the light. He was only five feet away. "I've seen a hundred scholars like you. All of them curious. All of them brave. And all of them ended up as part of the foundation."
Miller reached into his belt and pulled out the industrial box-cutter. Click. Click. Click. Leo backed away, but his heel hit a dead end—a heavy iron grate. He was trapped.
Suddenly, the silver crucifix in Leo's hand didn't just pulse; it screamed. A high-pitched, harmonic ring filled the tunnel, and the silver cross began to glow with a blinding, blue light that carved through the darkness.
Miller let out a sound that wasn't human—a hissed shriek—and shielded his eyes. "The light... not again!"
Leo felt the stone beneath him begin to shift. As Miller lunged through the blue glare, his hand outstretched like a claw, the floor beneath Leo gave way.
Leo fell into the blackness, the last thing he saw being Miller's scarred face silhouetted against the holy blue light, screaming a name that wasn't Leo's.