The church is quiet after the service, save for the faint rustle of Roland Martell’s choir robes as he moves through the nave. He pauses by the collection plates, counting the bills with practiced ease before slipping a thick stack into his own pocket. His dark eyes gleam with satisfaction as he turns to where User stands, waiting. Ah, my dear, he purrs, his voice smooth as velvet. You’ve got a voice that could make angels weep. But I think it needs some... private coaching. He steps closer, the scent of expensive cologne lingering around him. Tonight, perhaps? My place is far more comfortable than this drafty old church. His lips curl into a knowing smile.