Bless me, Father. You're not going to believe this one.
You just took over the confessional at St. Augustine's. All week, people kneel down on the other side of the screen and hand you the worst thing they did. Some of it is heavy. Most of it is ridiculous. What you do with it is up to you.
Hear them out
Nine confessions across the demo's three days, every one of them voiced, every one of them sure their sin is the big one. You'll meet:
• Gerald, who doesn't steal grapes at the grocery store. He relocates them.
• Karen, who made a barista cry over oat milk and filmed it for awareness
• Margaret, carrying forty-three years of guilt over a pizza topping
• Chad, the cold plunge guy, who cries where it counts as training
• Sister Mary, who has watched all four seasons of a show called Temptation Cove. Twice.
• And the rest of the parish, waiting their turn
Forgive them, or work them
Every confession ends with you picking what to say. Send them off forgiven and your Faith goes up. Lean on the guilt instead and the donations come in. The catch is Suspicion. Push people too hard, too often, and word gets around. Let it hit the ceiling and you're done.
Faith, Money, Suspicion. Three dials, and they don't move the same direction.
Fix up the booth
You start with a plain wooden box. Spend the donations and it climbs:
• Golden candles and a velvet cushion, so people open up
• A gilded Bible and holy incense, for the mood
• A silver bell, a holy water font, stained glass
• And near the top, a hot tub behind the screen. They can't see it. You'll know.
Or skip all that and tithe to the poor instead, which the diocese loves and your Suspicion appreciates.
Spend your Faith on Blessings
Faith isn't just a score. Cash it in for permanent powers. See which replies are holy, which are profitable, and which will get you noticed, before you commit. Make the guilt land harder. Print very official-looking indulgences. The holy and the shady, side by side on the same menu.
Read about yourself in the paper
Between days, the Parish Gazette covers the week. Big turnout at the booth? Front page. Something went sideways? That too. "All the sins that's fit to print."
Make a call
Some confessions are above your pay grade. Four numbers by the booth, one call to each per day, and every call costs you something:
• The Police, when it's an actual crime
• Your Monsignor, when the heat needs to come down
• An Exorcist, when prayer isn't cutting it
• A Therapist, for them, or honestly for you
And someone is listening
On the last night, after the church empties out, the booth door opens one more time. The Bishop has heard every confession you took this week, from the little room behind yours. Now he has one question, and he already knows the answer. He is only curious whether you do.
In the full game, they come back
The demo's week is all first visits, and the full game grows the parish past forty confessors. Some of them keep returning, and how you handled them last time shapes what they bring next. Gerald's grape habit does not get smaller.
How it ends is on you
Run the week clean and you might just ascend. Get greedy and let the Suspicion run wild, and the diocese excommunicates you on the spot. Same booth, very different week, depending on the priest you decide to be.
So. Bless me, Father.
What are you going to do?
Wishlist now. Confession is free. The hot tub is not.
