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Bless him father. It's been three, maybe four decades since his last confession.

Not that he was a pious man. And penitence hadn't been his strong suit. Why piss off twelve deities for the sake of making peace with one? When you died, they didn't bid for your eternal spirit. Neither did they war for it. And there wasn't an Anti-Christ playing chess with a Christian god over a river of souls.

“You died! One minute and forty seconds. Down for the fucking count. Then boom. Paddles to the chest and suddenly you’re all better?"

There was an afterlife. Several. Hundreds. Angels of Death -- their true names buried in ancient texts, beings as old as the Earth -- served at the moment of passing. But contrary to popular belief, they didn't ferry you to your final destination. That was reserved for another.

Someone Whistler had expected to meet a few weeks back. Sometimes, more often that not, he ran a bit late. Rhiannon joked her boyfriend's internal clock was set to Eastern Standard Time. But he never missed an appointment. Not one.

"I couldn't have died. I'd know."

“Apparently, you don’t know shit.”

Forgive him father, for he is about to sin.

The elderly man, peaceful in his bed. His wine-colored robes hung with care, the crucifix nailed above the modest headboard. So quiet in the rectory. The final soft breaths echoed throughout the bare room.

The Agent crossed through the parish church, lit a candle. Pretended to say a few words on bended knee. Slipped through the back door, ignored by the crack dealer and his latest client. Up the stairs, into the bedroom to the dying priest.

He sat patiently, waited.

Five minutes after the priest took his final breath, Whistler reached deep inside and pulled.

A gasp. Two.The old man slowly opened his eyes. Scared. A face that had known peace.

"Tell me, Vicar."

The voice plaintive.

"What did ya see?"

Forgive him father, for he cares not what he's done.