Scarlet red drops splattered onto the marble. The fifteen-year-old teenager took deliberate steps towards his beloved confessional booth, leaving a trail of red-stained footsteps. The letter opener glistened, and thick fluid ran down the surfaces. For once in the short amount of years Jongsuk had lived, he stood before the opening of the Father. The Oakwood door shook as if someone from the other side desperately attempted to shut it.