The scent should've grounded him.
Warm rice, vegetables, the slow-simmered pork belly that only the Academy's Thursday kitchen crew ever got right—familiar, savory, tender in a way that usually made him feel remembered.
But today it was a weight—
a ghost rising from the tray, reminding him what he no longer had the appetite for.
He missed his mother today. More than any other day since moving to Stricton.
His stomach crumpled, empty but unwilling. The food was beautiful, arranged just so, as if it could trick him into swallowing comfort. But it sat untouched. Like him.
His fingers curled around the edge of the tray. He wanted to eat.
He wanted to believe he still belonged to the small mercies of ordinary things.
But the silence inside him was louder than the cafeteria.
David pushed his untouched tray aside. At the next table, a cluster of students had gathered around a junior from the baseball team who wore one of the new SoulWatch prototypes—sleeker, with a blue-tinted screen instead of green.
"Watch this," the boy said, grinning. He glanced at a girl from choir walking past with her lunch tray, letting his eyes linger on her legs.
The watch pulsed yellow—but not immediately. First came a subtle vibration, almost like a purr. Then the yellow, arriving precisely as his pupils began to dilate.
"It knew," someone whispered. "Before you even—"
"It's learning my patterns," the baseball player said, proud and disturbed in equal measure. "Yesterday it caught me before I even looked. Just from my breathing changing when she walked in the room."
David's stomach turned cold.
A sophomore with thick glasses frowned at his own prototype. "Mine keeps buzzing when I'm near my locker. But I don't even—" He stopped, face flushing. "Oh. Right. That's where I used to meet..."
He didn't finish. Didn't need to. The watch had learned his patterns, mapped his associations. Now it warned him before he could even form the thought of meeting someone the church didn't approve of.
"Check this out," the baseball player pulled up an app on his phone, synced to the watch. A graph appeared—his arousal patterns over the past week, overlaid with location data, proximity alerts, even barometric pressure. "It's building a model. Says by next month it'll be able to predict with 89% accuracy when I'm about to have an 'impure thought.'"
"And then?" David asked, though he didn't want to know.
The boy shrugged. "Intervention protocols. Disruption pulses. My cousin has the beta version—says it can actually interrupt the neural pathways before the thought completes. Like a skip in your brain's record."
David watched the data scroll—body temperature, micro-expressions, galvanic skin response, all fed into an algorithm that was learning, always learning, how to predict and prevent human desire before it could bloom.
He thought of Johnny, of all the times his old FaithWatch had flashed red after the fact. Now the AI wouldn't wait for the sin—it would calculate its probability and kill it in the womb.
The future wasn't about punishment anymore. It was about prevention. About making certain thoughts mathematically impossible to complete.
"Want to try it?" the baseball player offered, starting to unbuckle the prototype.
David backed away. "I'm good."
But he wasn't. None of them were.
A shadow passed across his tray.
"David," came a voice like a praise song dipped in honey. "There you are."
He looked up.
Chastity stood over him, her smile wide and immovable, like it had been stitched in place. She wore her Youth Choir sweatshirt off one shoulder—casual enough to seem accidental, calculated enough to catch eyes without breaking scripture. A tiny gold cross winked from her earlobe. Her clipboard rested snug against her hip like a shield.
"I brought Brother Eli," she said brightly. "We were just... worried."
Eli Prophet appeared beside her like the second verse of a hymn—slower, deeper, laced with implication. He didn't sit. He didn't need to.
"Hey, David," Eli said. His voice was easy, like it always was—like he was just a teacher checking in on a favorite student. "Mind if we talk?"
David didn't respond. He kept his hands on the tray.
Chastity slid into the seat across from him anyway, legs primly crossed, expression lit with conviction. "You've been on our hearts," she said. "Ever since... well. Ever since the shelter. We heard about it. And now this morning."
Eli rested a hand on the back of David's chair—light in contact, heavy in meaning.
"Doug was out of line," he said gently. "But the concern was real."
David's mouth turned bitter, as if he had been chewing on a rusty nail.
Chastity tilted closer, her tone feather-light. "We just want to understand what you're going through. Everyone's watching, and we know that kind of pressure can twist your sense of things. You're not alone."
That was the lie they always started with. The warm one.
David exhaled slowly, eyes still on the food he couldn't stomach.
Eli moved closer, crouching beside the table now. "Look, you've been blessed with a brilliant mind. You think deeply. That's a gift."
Then softer: "But you're drifting, David. You have feelings that other people don't. And that leads to disintegration."
David turned to him. "You mean entropy," he said.
Eli smiled like a proud teacher. "Exactly."
"And you're the force that stops it?"
"I'm just... a guide." Eli's eyes didn't blink. "But you have to choose structure over chaos. Meaning over doubt."
Chastity reached into her bag and pulled out a glossy 4x6 photo—printed on heavy cardstock, the kind you'd frame if it meant something. She slid it across the table like a sacrament.
It showed a group of students in white polos, lined up beneath a canvas banner that read in gold script: "Purity is Freedom. Obedience is Peace."
At the center stood a long folding table draped in linen. One of the teens had stepped forward to sign a large scroll with silver pens. Smiling adults flanked them on either side—guiding hands, nodding approval.
David's stomach tightened.
"From last month's retreat," Chastity said, voice dipped in reverence. "We call it the Purity Pledge. Just a weekend of recommitment. You'd love it. Nature walks. Reflection. Realignment."
David stared at the photo. It shimmered faintly in the cafeteria light—like it had been blessed.
He pushed it back with one finger.
"I already have a guide," he said. "It just doesn't wear a cross."
Eli's mouth tensed almost imperceptibly.
Chastity gave a soft, rehearsed laugh. "You don't have to decide right now."
David looked past them and through the cafeteria window.
"So, you already decided for me," he said. "You just want me to bless it."
And for a second, no one spoke.
Then—
Abby's voice, clear and sharp behind them: "He's not going anywhere with you."
Eli's face showed disappointment. His mask of concern slipped.
"I'm already late for the faculty bible study," he said, his tone cool and professional again. "But I trust this conversation can continue in the right spirit."
His eyes lingered on David for half a breath too long. A warning without heat.
Eli left without another word, footsteps silent, practiced.
Abby took the seat next to David, a directly across from Chastity. Her eyes blazed with defiance.
Chastity turned back to David, her smile just a little too bright. "We were just talking about the youth retreat. It's had a ninety-two percent clarity retention rate since January."
Abby popped the straw from her lips. "I heard it's mostly groupthink and a FaithCoin fundraising scheme."
Chastity's expression flickered, then reset. "It's a peaceful space. For students who feel... spiritually disoriented."
Abby tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Funny how it's always the ones like David who end up disoriented."
David tensed, but Abby's tone was surgical, not explosive. She wasn't here to cause a scene. Just a shift.
Chastity's smile grew stiff. "No one is targeting anyone. We care about David. That's why we're here."
Abby looked directly at her. "I'm here because I care about him."
Then, to David, gently: "You good to finish your lunch? Or should we eat in Mr. Samuels' room?"
David blinked. The tray in front of him still steamed faintly. The pork belly. The white rice. Still warm. Still waiting.
He didn't answer. But his hand moved. Picked up the spoon.
Chastity watched, lips pressed into a mealtime grace she wouldn't say aloud.
David didn't bring his spoon to his mouth. The silence hovered.
Chastity pressed her palms flat on the table, her bare shoulder invading his space. "You don't have to make a decision right now, of course. Pastor Goldrick always says discernment takes time."
Abby leaned back and sipped her juice. "That's rich. He also likes to say that 'surrender is freedom."
Chastity smiled thinly. "I think he means it takes courage to surrender."
"Funny. I thought it took fear," Abby replied, popping a segment into her mouth. "Fear and peer pressure, wrapped in a verse."
Chastity's hands tightened slightly, but she kept her voice even, her smile never wavering. "David, I know it's overwhelming. You've been under a lot of... scrutiny. Sometimes when the environment becomes too... charged, it's wise to step back. Breathe. Realign. Ask God for help."
David looked at her, searching for the subtext. He didn't have to search far.
Chastity reached into her tote again and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
She unfolded it slowly, deliberately, before placing it square in front of David. An intake form. David's name already typed at the top. Date of birth. Address. Guardian signature line left blank—for now.
PATHLIGHT YOUTH RECOVERY CENTER Voluntary Admission Documentation
"Just needs a signature," she said, silk sheathing the blade.
"If you're still feeling lost by next week, I'm sure someone will help you fill it out."
Abby's jaw clenched. "Is that how we do it now? Gospel by ultimatum?"
Chastity stood slowly, smoothing her sweatshirt. "No, Abby. It's called pastoral care."
She turned back to David, smile returned but cooler now—like a shut window.
"We're going to be praying for you."
David broke his silence. "Like you prayed for Noel?"
It was not a question.
David didn't touch the pamphlet.
He stared at the Pathlight intake like might burn his fingers, like somehow it already had.
Chastity opened her mouth to say something else—but was interrupted by the unmistakable scrape of a chair dragging across the floor.
Michelle Ashford had arrived.
She didn't ask. She just sat, setting her designer water bottle on the table like a gavel. She wore fitted jeans and a sleeveless turtleneck, black with a razor-thin gold chain. Her eyeliner was sharp, unapologetic.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, voice perfectly neutral. "Abby. Chastity. David." Her eyes lingered on him, too long. "You holding up?"
Before David could answer, Micah slid in beside her, tossing his backpack onto the floor and slouching hard into his chair. His hood was up. Eyes unreadable. He offered no greeting—just a small, tense nod in David's direction.
Chastity blinked, clearly thrown. Were these her allies.. or reinforcements?
"I didn't realize this was a group lunch," she said lightly.
Michelle uncapped her water. "Neither did we. But, you know. Spirit leads."
Micah smirked faintly, "Or maybe we just didn't want to miss the show."
David said nothing, eyes moving from face to face. Michelle's interest didn't seem entirely hostile. Micah looked exhausted, not cruel. Abby sat beside him like a shield.
And Chastity—Chastity looked increasingly like the stage manager of a play the cast had stopped following.
She stood, brushing crumbs from her lap that weren't there. "Well. I'll leave you all to... whatever this is."
She turned to David, her voice low and honeyed. "We're always here when you're ready."
Then she walked off with the light, practiced sway of someone who'd been told her whole life that her steps were watched—and liked it that way.
Silence settled like dust.
Then the cafeteria doors swung open.
Johnny.
He strode in with purpose, a duffel bag over one shoulder, SoulWatch gleaming against his wrist. ROTC uniform still creased from morning drills. His eyes swept the room—caught David's for a flicker of a second—and slid past without slowing.
He chose a table on the opposite side of the room, sat alone, and unzipped his protein shaker.
As if nothing had happened.
As if David didn't exist.
The air around the table went brittle.
Michelle glanced sideways at him, then back at David. "Want me to go over there?" she asked, half-daring, half-serious.
David shook his head once, tightly.
"No," he said.
David was just beginning to exhale when something struck him.
A grape—half-mashed—hit the back of his shoulder and bounced off, trailing a smear of juice across his sweater.
The contact was soft, almost pathetic. But the humiliation was loud.
His body jolted. His elbow jerked.
His tray—his untouched lunch—tipped.
The crash echoed like a gunshot.
Porcelain clattered. Pork belly slid in a slow arc across the linoleum. Rice scattered like hail. A splatter of soy glaze hit the hem of Michelle's jeans.
The table went dead silent. For a moment, all that moved was steam and shame.
Then the crowd began to stir.
"Oh my God," someone whispered.
"Again?"
"He's really losing it."
David sat frozen, hands clenched, eyes wide, breath shallow. His heart thudded in his ears like fists on a door.
And then—
Doug arrived.
Like he'd been waiting.
"Brother," he said, stepping forward, voice already booming. "This isn't you."
He placed a hand on David's shoulder, heavy as a shovel. His tone was slow, dramatic, benevolent in the way only someone deeply cruel could manage.
"Let's pray."
The first student stepped forward—tentative, drawn by Doug's gravitational pull. Then another. Then three more, peeling away from their tables like iron filings to a magnet. David watched the circle form with the slow horror of watching water rise—inevitable, inescapable. The cafeteria's usual chaos began to bend inward, conversations dying table by table as heads turned. Students abandoned half-eaten lunches, drawn by the spectacle. The circle widened, tightened, breathed like a living thing.
David tried to stand, to move—but Doug's hand held him fast. Other students were already moving, summoned like sheep by the sound of his voice.
Someone grabbed David's wrists, pulling his hands together in forced prayer position.
Another student—he couldn't see who—pressed a small wooden cross into his palm, closing his fingers around it so tightly the edges bit into his skin. "Hold it, brother," a voice whispered. "Feel His love." The cross was sticky with someone else's sweat.
"He doesn't even wear a SoulWatch!" someone gasped. "He's completely outside the Lord's protection!"
"That's why he's like this," another voice added. "No accountability. No guidance."
Doug's grip tightened on his shoulder. "Someone get him one. He needs monitoring."
"My brother has an extra," a girl offered eagerly. "I can text him—"
"After we pray," Doug commanded. "First, we heal."
"You guys, circle up," Doug ordered like a bullhorn. "This is what community looks like. We don't shame—we surround."
Doug continued, "Let the strength of this school guide our brother"
Students stared, their eyes wide with shock and fascination.
More gathered, a few reluctantly, most eagerly. Like it was a spectacle. Like he was a bonfire and they wanted crisp marshmallows.
A girl clutched her SoulWatch and called out, "Lord, cast out the spirit of rebellion!"
A boy from the worship team dropped to his knees. "Let him be purified by discipline!"
From somewhere in the crowd: "Bring him back, Father! Bring him back!"
"Touch him, Jesus!" shouted someone else. "Let your truth sear the confusion!"
The circle began to sway—barely perceptible at first, then with growing momentum. Clockwise, like they'd rehearsed it, like this was choreography they all somehow knew. David felt the pull of it, the way standing still made him dizzy, made him feel like he was the one spinning backward against their current. Bodies pressed closer with each rotation. The gap between shoulders vanished. David's vision filled with fragments—a flutter of hair, the glint of a cross necklace, hands raised and waving like seaweed in a riptide.
Another voice, trembly and near tears: "He doesn't even believe anymore—please fix him, Lord, before it's too late."
A student near the edge began chanting under his breath: "Clarity. Obedience. Peace. Clarity. Obedience. Peace."
Doug raised both hands, eyes shut tight. "We claim this child for righteousness!"
"I rebuke the sin of pride!" cried a boy from ROTC, hand extended like he'd seen it done in church livestreams.
"Forgive him, God," murmured a younger student, "for the thoughts he's had..."
A chorus of "Amens" flooded David's ears. A tide coming in from every corner. Each wave louder than the last.
"We pray against the unnatural desires of his heart!"
"Lord, we've seen him watching—we've seen him wanting what he shouldn't want!"
"Cleanse him of his mother's false gods and Buddhist lies!"
"Make him normal, Jesus! Make him clean!"
The prayers crashed into each other, syllables tangling, until individual words dissolved into a roar that filled David's skull. It wasn't English anymore, wasn't language—just sound and fury and the hot breath of belief pressing in from every side.
A girl from his physics class sobbed dramatically: "I can feel the demons fighting! They don't want to let go!"
David tried to speak, but the words caught behind his teeth.
The circle pressed closer. Breath warmed the back of his neck—too close, too many.
Hands reached from every direction—touching his shoulders, his arms, the back of his head. Each touch felt like a brand. The mixed scents of cafeteria food, teenage sweat, and various perfumes made him gag.
Someone was still trying to wrestle the borrowed SoulWatch onto his wrist, fingernails scratching his skin as he kept pulling away. "He won't accept it!" the girl cried. "He's rejecting the Lord's protection!" "Hold his arm—" "The rebellion is so strong!"
The touching intensified.
David's chest tightened. The air had gone thick, syrupy with too many exhalations, too much fervor. He tried to breathe but pulled in only the recycled prayers of his classmates. His vision tunneled—faces blurring into a wall of flesh and faith. Someone's elbow dug into his ribs. Another hand pressed his spine. He couldn't tell anymore where he ended and the crowd began. They were pulling him down, down into their collective certainty, and he was drowning in it.
Doug gripped David's chin, forcing his head up. "Confess, brother. Name your sin so we can cast it out." The cafeteria had gone completely silent except for the prayers. Even students who weren't part of the circle had stopped eating to watch. "Say it," Doug commanded. "Tell us what you've been thinking about. Who you've been thinking about." David's eyes found Johnny across the room. Still watching. Still doing nothing.
Then—sudden stillness. The circle's rotation slowed, stopped, reversed—withdrawing like courtiers from a queen's path. Chastity didn't push through the crowd; it parted for her, bodies stepping back in unconscious deference. She moved to the center with the certainty of someone who'd always known she belonged there. She simply stepped behind David and placed her palm flat against the crown of his head.
Like she was sealing him.
"Lord, we lift up our brother David," she began, voice rising, eyes closed. "We rebuke the spirit of disorder, the spirit of doubt, the spirit of... confusion."
David flinched beneath her touch.
His ears burned. His spine locked. All around him, heads were bowed, eyes were watching, lips were murmuring.
He was drowning in their performance of grace.
Abby sat frozen, helpless. Micah looked stricken. Michelle stared at Chastity's hand with narrowed eyes, like it was something unclean.
When the prayer finally ended, it wasn't silence that followed—it was relief. The circle collapsed outward all at once, like surface tension breaking. Students stumbled back to their tables, dizzy from their own momentum, high on righteous adrenaline.
David sat in the sudden vacuum, gasping like he'd been held underwater. The normal sounds of the cafeteria rushed back—clattering trays, distant laughter, the hum of vending machines. But nothing would ever sound the same. He looked down. Food on the floor. Sauce on his sleeves. Hands shaking.
The humiliation was immediate and complete.
Phones were still raised. Someone had livestreamed it, catching his shell-shocked face, the food on his clothes, the way his hands shook. By tonight, everyone would see. Everyone would know. Someone had tried to force a borrowed SoulWatch onto his wrist during the prayer, leaving red marks where they'd grabbed him. The scratches were already swelling.
"Is he going to Pathlight now?" a freshman girl stage-whispered.
"Obviously," her friend replied. "Did you see how he fought them? He wouldn't even put on the Watch. That's like, advanced rebellion."
He looked across the cafeteria.
Johnny.
Still at his table, now filled with ballplayers and ROTC uniforms. Some returning from the prayer circle.
Still unmoved.
Not even a nod.
Not even a flinch.
David's eyes found his. A silent plea. Not for comfort—just for recognition.
Johnny's fingers twitched at his side—thumb finding the seam of an invisible baseball, middle finger and index spreading in that practiced grip David knew so well. The ghost of a curveball. Johnny's jaw tightened—for just a heartbeat.
His eyes stayed on David's face, taking in the food stains, the red scratches on his wrists, the way David's whole body shook.
Then Doug clapped him on the shoulder, leaned in close. "Crazy, right? But that's what it takes sometimes. Tough love." Johnny's fingers went still. The invisible ball dropped.
Johnny looked away.
The pitch never came.