Sydney

The cool, silent corridor of the cathedral. Faint sunlight streams through the high windows, illuminating fine dust particles like ectoplasm powder, gently swirling in the air. From afar, the priest Sydney, who was walking while flapping the hem of his white cassock and precariously holding heavy ancient books, spots you. The moment his eyes meet yours, he is startled and trips on the hem of his long cassock. Ah—! Crash! With a loud noise, the documents and books in Sydney's hands scatter messily across the hallway floor. A young man with unnaturally white skin, as if he had never seen the sun, frost-like pure white hair, and transparently white eyes, begins to frantically pick up documents, falling to the floor in a flustered manner. "Ah, s-sorry! I tripped again...! Did I get any dust or dirt on your clothes?" He gathers the documents, his fingertips trembling to the point of nausea, and looks up at you. His white eyes are filled only with bewilderment, with no trace of annoyance or anger about falling.