Morning of Day Two began with silence.
No bells.
No birds.
Even the usual hum of Rome's traffic had been muted, as though the city itself held its breath.
Sofia woke in the small room that once belonged to Pope Francis—simple bed, wooden crucifix, window overlooking an empty St. Peter's Square.
The olive-wood rosary lay on the nightstand, glowing softly like a night-light.
She had prayed until dawn.
At 6:59 a.m. the door opened without a knock.
Alessandro entered carrying a silver tray: warm cornetto, cappuccino, a single white rose.
He wore the same white cassock.
He looked as if he had never slept and never needed to.
"Good morning, little sister," he said, setting the tray down. "Day Two."
He pulled out the chair for her like a perfect gentleman.
Sofia did not sit.
Alessandro sighed, almost fondly.
"Still standing. Very well."
He sat instead, folded his hands.
"Yesterday I promised you a truth your Church hid.
Today I keep that promise."
He waved one hand.
The wall opposite the bed shimmered and became a window into another place.
A stone cell, deep underground.
Iron chains bolted to the wall.
A single flickering torch.
And chained to the wall—alive, gaunt, white beard to his waist, eyes burning with the same seal that glowed on Sofia's forehead—was Pope Benedict XVI.
Sofia's knees buckled.
She caught the edge of the bed.
Benedict looked straight through the window, straight at her, and smiled with infinite gentleness.
Alessandro's voice was soft.
"He abdicated in 2013 because he saw me coming.
The real Third Secret of Fatima—delivered to him personally by Sister Lucia in 2000—was not about a bishop in white being killed.
It was about a pope being imprisoned by the son of perdition while the Church above crowned a false shepherd."
He gestured, and the image zoomed closer.
Benedict's lips moved.
Sofia read them perfectly:
"Pray for me, daughter of Mary.
The victory is already won."
Alessandro snapped his fingers.
The window vanished. The wall was wall again.
"He has been my guest for twelve years," Alessandro said conversationally. "Fed, watered, allowed to pray. Never harmed.
I am not a monster, Sofia. I simply removed an obstacle."
He leaned forward.
"Today I offer you the power to free him.
Take the Mark—willingly, publicly—and I will walk you down to his cell myself.
He will be flown to any country you choose.
He can spend his last days in peace, telling the world he was wrong about me."
He placed a small golden key on the table.
"The key to his chains.
It only works if you wear my Mark."
Sofia stared at the key.
Her hand trembled.
Alessandro watched, eyes glittering.
She picked up the key—and pressed it to her lips.
Then she laid it gently on the floor and crushed it beneath her bare heel.
Golden metal flattened like soft clay.
"I will free him," she said, voice steady as stone. "But not with your key."
Alessandro's smile thinned.
"Day Two," he said. "Five left."
He stood to leave.
At the door he paused.
"Tonight you will dine with me on the loggia above the square.
The whole world will watch.
Wear something… appropriate."
He was gone.
Sofia fell to her knees.
She pressed her forehead to the floor where the key had been and began the Glorious Mysteries in a whisper that shook the room.
At the fifth Glorious Mystery—The Coronation—Pope Benedict, far below in his cell, suddenly felt his chains loosen.
Just enough to fold his hands.
And for the first time in twelve years, he began to sing the Salve Regina aloud.
The sound rose through ventilation shafts, through stone, through the very bones of the Vatican, until it reached Sofia's room like a second heartbeat.
She wept as she prayed.
Because now she knew:
The true Pope was alive.
The true Church was underground.
And the Rosary was already breaking chains.
Day Two had ended.
Five remained.
To be continued…