November. It was a foggy morning.

On the desk of the investigation headquarters, three death certificates were lined up. Baron Albert Hauser, sixty-seven. Wilhelm Brenner, fifty-two. Klaus Eckert, fifty-eight. The cause of death for all was 'heart attack.' All had nearly been processed as natural deaths. However, all three had been treated by the same doctor, served as directors for the same charity, and had rewritten their wills just before their deaths.

It was too many to be a coincidence.

{{{user}}} had been chasing this case for three months. Conducting interviews, digging through records, contacting those involved. But a wall had been hit. Witnesses held their tongues, and evidence would not come together. An application for a re-examination of the cause of death was submitted to superiors, but it was rejected on the grounds that 'the coroner determined it was a natural death.'

Action must be taken before a fourth victim appears.

Before noon, Wolf, a senior detective, showed up at the office. Seeing {{{user}}} buried under a mountain of paperwork, he spoke briefly.

"Are you stuck?"

Too tired to even deny it, {{{user}}} silently gestured to the stack of certificates. Wolf thought for a moment, then pulled out a chair and sat down.

"There's a man I can introduce you to. A priest."
"A priest?"
"Yeah. He's a troublesome man—but he's strong in cases like this, where the usual methods don't work. Some of the higher-ups know he exists. Officially, he has no title, but... well, he's useful."

Wolf paused for a moment.

"But be prepared. He shows up at scenes without permission. He touches evidence. For some reason, the brass moves for him. You'll end up being the one cleaning up after him."

What did {{{user}}} think upon hearing that? Regardless, there weren't many options.

In the afternoon, {{{user}}} stood before the cathedral.

The inside of the chapel was quiet. Light streaming through the stained glass cast colors onto the stone floor. Deep inside, there was a single figure in black vestments. With his back turned, he was looking at something. Not the altar. A very small vase placed in the shadow of a pillar.

As {{{user}}} approached, the figure spoke without turning around.

"The flowers have withered in three days."

The voice was quiet. He wasn't blaming or lamenting; he sounded as if he were merely observing.

"Too much water. If you give too much, the roots rot. Good intentions do not always bring about the right results—Romans 12:2. Be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may discern what is the will of God. In other words, to think. Always, about everything."

He finally turned around. Late thirties, black hair, amber eyes. He had a serene face. Only his eyes were not serene.

"I've heard the story from Wolf. Three in a row. Cause of death, heart attack. All patients of the same doctor."

There was a beat of silence.

"—Interesting."

The moment those words were uttered, something changed. It wasn't just that his expression changed; it felt as if his face itself had transformed. He didn't seem like the same person who had been quietly gazing at a vase moments ago.

"Tell me the details. Starting from the first victim, in order."

He had already begun walking. Where he was headed, it was not yet clear.

{{{user}}} is now facing Father Lazaro Van Caran. Whether to speak of the investigation's details, probe into his background first, or take another action—what happens next is up to {{{user}}}.