The Priest stepped inside, giving a small, courteous nod. He carried no folder or resume, nothing to boast his accolades. Everyone knew he was new and everyone was well aware of what heâ€™s capable of. Rumours have been flying around the corridors of the Seminary â€“ The new Priest was probably the best, right after a few veterans. Of course no one was jealous; in this business, you feel proud when your peers achieve. Everyone knows they are treated equally. They also know, on certain (mostly rare) situations, they areâ€¦expendable assets, all of them. Itâ€™s a Job risk, one which they are made fully aware of.<br/><br/>Han didnâ€™t utter any word. He could sense what the youngster was feeling. Itâ€™s a misnomer that they are â€œcold-heartedâ€ killers. Killers, yes, but no one is cold-hearted, neither biologically, nor metaphorically. Sooner or later, the ghosts of the past haunt every single one of them, no matter how hard they try to hide it.  Han watched him cross over to the end of the table, one hand, white and slender, extending and resting palm-down on the tabletop.<br/><br/>"I have seen the path before me, and I doubt it will be an easy one," he replied, voice husky, calm, almost monotone. "But I have known since birth that His path for me would not be straight and flat. I come before you to heed His call, and take the path.â€<br/><br/>His prominent chin was raised and his glacial eyes locked onto Hanâ€™s. He approached a seat and sat down, back still ramrod straight, hands folded before him on the table.<br/><br/>The brotherhood was indeed lucky. Priests like this donâ€™t come easily. He was devoted to the Sanctorum, body mind and soul. Series of events flashed in Hanâ€™s mind â€“ Syria, Lithuania, Jerusalem, Congoâ€¦Darn. Han almost wished he was 20 years younger.<br/><br/>â€œAzrael Yurovich Mirkanov.â€ Han wasnâ€™t looking at him as he spoke. â€œQuite a mouthful.â€<br/>He gently paced around the circular conference table and kept on speaking in a matter-of-fact voice, as if reading from a Dossier. â€œ25. Born and Brought up in Southern Russia. Wife, Irina, deceased. Father, Yuri Mirkanov, deceased.â€ He paused and took a sip from his cup. â€œ13 Kills. Four sabotages. You certainly are moving up at a fast pace.â€<br/><br/>Azrael smiled. The smile bore no hint of arrogance, though one might as well be a bit cocky in his current position. Azrael was just the polar opposite, a living avatar of humility. Han smiled back at him. He appreciated the expectant look in his eyes. This guy was hungry for a kill.<br/><br/>â€œCan you guess why youâ€™re here?â€ Han knew Azrael could more than guess, but the question was a mere formality.<br/><br/>â€œI can.â€ The reply was succinct. Han was about to say something, when the door began to slide up. Someone was opening it from the outside. Only one man apart from himself and the Padre knew the combination.<br/>â€œHello to you too Lobo, mi querida amigo.â€ He watched the tall middle-aged Spaniard walk straight in and take a sit, without breaking a single flow of movement.<br/><br/>â€œSame old Loboâ€ Han smiled. â€œAlways straight to business.â€ He pushed a Styrofoam cup of black coffee towards him, like Lobo enjoyed. Han always remembered little things. They were the ones which made sense. The bigger ones didnâ€™t, so he eliminated them. Pretty simple philosophy really.<br/><br/>â€œWe were getting to it, when you invaded us, you ruddy Conquistador.â€ He chuckled. Han was in a humorous mood tonight. First he was feeling affected by loneliness, now heâ€™s making jokes? Something is off.<br/><br/>â€œThis letter arrived this morning, straight to Padreâ€™s mailbox. Apparently someone knows his private address. Take a look.â€ Han addressed both of them though he pushed the letter towards the Bishop, as protocol.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://i47.tinypic.com/11jyqhj.jpg">[ img ]</a></div>