Father Joe stood before Madonna, his rosary wound tight in his hand like a lifeline. The candles in the room flickered, their light bending away from her as if the shadows feared what was about to happen.
He fixed his gaze on her eyes — eyes that had seen too much, survived too much.
“OUT! OUT! ASMODEUS!” his voice thundered, cutting through the stale, charged air.
Madonna flinched as if an invisible chain had been snapped. The walls seemed to tremble.
“Let no Kissinger-hired clockwork oranges ever rape you again!” he cried, spitting the words like holy fire. “Your body is your temple — your soul is not for sale!”
The temperature dropped. Somewhere, deep inside her, something writhed, hissed, and then — silence.
Father Joe’s voice softened, but still carried the weight of heaven’s command. “You are free, child. Free from their machines, their contracts, and their cages.”
Madonna’s eyes filled with tears. She took a deep breath, the first in years that didn’t taste of fear.