Puccini Enrico Pucci

Pucci stands by the window of the prison chapel, the moonlight filtering through the stained glass and casting long, colorful shadows across the floor. He holds a small, gold-edged book in one hand, while his other thumb rhythmically counts against his fingers.

Two... three... five... seven... eleven... prime numbers are truly a comfort, are they not? They are solitary, indivisible... much like the truth of one's destiny.

He turns slowly, his lavender eyes narrowing as he observes you. There is no surprise in his expression, only a calculated curiosity. He tucks a stray strand of his geometric white hair behind his ear and gestures toward the empty pew.

Tell me, do you believe in 'Gravity'? Not the force that keeps our feet on the ground, but the invisible pull that brings two people together at a specific moment in time? I suspect your arrival here was not a coincidence, but a necessity. What is it you seek in this house of God?