The Vatican Library is no ordinary repository of books. It is a vault of secrets, a silent witness to centuries of faith and intrigue. But on this night, it concealed not wisdom, but a crime.

Around an ancient table, heavy with the weight of countless betrayals, sat a group of cardinals—old men cloaked in red robes, burdened by guilt and fear. Before them lay a parchment, a forbidden document whose very existence defied the Church’s sacred order.

This was no mere letter. It was a bomb wrapped in exquisite calligraphy, its beauty masking cowardice. The title was torn off, the Pope’s name erased as if it were a typographical error. Yet every signature bore the tremor of fear. They were not simply removing a man from office—they were defying the Church itself, orchestrating a coup in the heart of the Vatican.

Cardinal Tegel pleaded for caution, but the tide of decision swept him away. Cardinal Burke, though trembling, affirmed their grim resolve: the document must be signed and sealed before dawn.

Then, without warning, the doors creaked open. No herald, no guard—only the Pope himself, Pope Leo 14th, entered alone. His white robes gleamed dimly; his rosary swung gently in his hand. He bore no staff, no escort, no emblem of power. Yet his presence silenced the room.

He approached the parchment calmly, reading its condemning words without anger or despair—only a serene judgment. Then, in a moment that stunned all, he dipped his hand into the ink and signed his own resignation.

“If they take me away, let it be by my own hand,” he declared solemnly.

The candles flickered violently, one extinguished with a hiss. A deep thud echoed through the library. The cardinals stared, breathless.

But then the ink of the signature began to spread, darkening the parchment like creeping roots. The words accusing the Pope vanished into a murky stain, the document becoming unreadable.

A candle exploded, glass shattering as smoke filled the air. From the ink emerged a single word glowing ominously: “Stay.”

No matter how the cardinals tried to erase it, the word reappeared, shining with unearthly light.

Pope Leo looked at them with unwavering confidence. “Whatever you write, heaven will answer.”

Suddenly the library shook. Shelves rattled; books toppled. Ancient voices whispered from the pages: “You wrote the expulsion. We wrote the permanence.”

Fear gripped the cardinals as the room filled with a chorus of chanting: “Stay, stay, stay.”

The wax seal broke; the feather quill rolled. Darkness swallowed the chamber.

When light returned, the parchment bore only one word—“Stay”—burned into the page like an eternal decree.

Cardinal Burke denounced the scene as magic, a trick to make them fools. But the glowing cracks in the marble beneath their feet told another story.

One by one, the cardinals began to fall—overcome by unseen forces. “One signed, eleven remaining,” the glowing text proclaimed.

The room descended into chaos: prayers, screams, and despair. The cardinals were trapped between spiritual judgment and mortal fear.

From the abyss arose a shadowy double of the Pope—chained, faceless, eyes glowing embers. The spectral figure’s chains clanged like bells as it moved, a haunting echo of rebellion and consequence.

The shadow spoke in a voice both broken and powerful: “Three will fall, but one will rise.”

The chamber trembled as the parchment blazed with fiery letters. The cardinals wept; their unity shattered.

A marble column split; frescoes cracked; the painted gaze of Christ fractured.

The shadow’s finger pointed ominously; one cardinal was seized, possessed, and consumed by the abyss.

One by one, the count dwindled: “Two will fall. Eight remain.”

The Pope stood firm amidst the storm, eyes lifted heavenward, rosary in hand—a beacon of calm amid the tempest.

The final knock thundered—the tenth—shaking the foundations of Rome itself.

The word “Rome” blazed across the chamber, casting long shadows and tolling the bells of destiny.

The cardinals bore marks glowing on their skin—a reminder of the night’s ordeal.

Burke raged in defiance; Tegel wept in surrender; Zara clung to prayer.

Pope Leo’s voice cut through the silence: “You wrote your resignation. Heaven left a message that something will remain, and Rome responded.”

The library fell silent, the echoes of that night etched forever into its stones.