"Are you sure about this?" Abby had asked.
The question still rang in David's head as he stepped into the sanctuary alone. He wasn't sure. Not about this, not about himself, and certainly not about Johnny.
David had imagined this moment a hundred different ways, but none of them hurt like this.
He caught sight of him instantly—same strong shoulders, same beautiful face—but everything else was wrong.
Hope was a dangerous thing to carry alone. And David was done carrying it in silence.
Johnny looked normal—but everything else was wrong. The crisp white shirt. The freshly shorn hair. The way Johnny sat, back perfectly straight, hands folded in his lap like a model student.
Too still.
Too silent.
Like someone performing the idea of a person.
He looks like a statue, David thought. A monument to obedience.
Then she stepped forward.
Jez Deb Hawkins.
She didn't take the pulpit so much as claim it—her steps slow, heels quiet on the polished stage floor. She wore matte charcoal from neck to heel, broken only by a crimson scarf knotted neatly at the throat—like a single drop of blood cupped in silk—an immaculate wound.
Her voice, when it came, was soft. Controlled. It didn't need to be loud. It had gravity.
"Welcome. All of you—old names and new hearts, neighbors. Friends. Seekers."
No one clapped. They didn't have to. The silence itself was reverent.
"You've been brought here for a reason. Whether you believe that yet or not—it's already true."
David's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"We live in a noisy world. Full of temptation, confusion, greed... indulgence. And in the middle of it, you've been asked to be still. To listen. To be shaped—not into someone new, but into who you were always meant to be."
She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. Beautiful in the way glass can be beautiful: reflective, sharp-edged, breakable only with force.
"Some people say places like this are too harsh. That structure is oppression. That silence is unnatural. But let me ask you something..."
She scanned the rows slowly, her gaze pausing just long enough to suggest intimacy, never long enough to invite challenge.
"When a tree grows wild, it twists away from the light. When fire spreads freely, it burns more than it warms. When love has no purpose, it devours instead of protects."
David's heart stuttered.
"We are not here to punish you," she said, gentle now. "We are here to show you the path back to wholeness. To remind you of who you are beneath all the noise."
David couldn't tell if it was comfort or control in her voice. Maybe it was both.
A hum of approval passed through the rows. Some nodded. Some closed their eyes.
The LED cross behind her pulsed in soft red and white, glowing in rhythm with his cadence. No shadows in the room. No art. Just white walls, clean lines, and light engineered to erase every human edge. The old theater David remembered—the velvet curtains, the chandelier dust, the warm acoustics—was gone beneath the smooth surfaces.
Faith, like everything else in Stricton, had been sterilized.
Johnny didn't flinch when Jez said "confusion." He didn't blink. He just stared forward, unmoved. His SoulWatch blinking red.
David remembered the way Johnny used to sneak glances during movie night. How his hand would brush against David's thigh under shared hymnals. He remembered laughter. Warmth. Touch. Now there was nothing in Johnny's posture but stillness and symmetry.
The word devour still reverberated in David's head. Was that what they thought his love had done?
"You were not placed here by accident. This gathering—your place in it—it was always here waiting for you," She continued, "That means something. It means we see the light in you. And if you don't feel it yet, that's alright. Sometimes the soul has to be still long enough to remember it was always burning."
Somewhere near the back, a soft chime sounded. FaithCoin prompts—weekly offerings—quietly pulsed to the congregation's SoulWatches. No baskets, no envelopes.
David's skin prickled.
"To outsiders, this place seems severe. But what they call constraint, we call care. But not everyone understands what this place is for."
She continued, her voice rising, "They say it's too strict, too clean, too programmed. But what they miss is that we are not here to entertain the self. We're here to refine it."
Her gaze passed across the room. She did not raise her voice. She didn't need to.
David's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He wasn't sure if Johnny heard any of it anymore, or if he had simply become the echo chamber the church needed him to be. Everything I loved about you, David thought, they're using it to break you.
But the boy he loved had to still be in there. Somewhere. And if Johnny had forgotten what it felt like to be seen—to be wanted without being rewritten—David would remind him.
His eyes never left Johnny's silhouette.
Hold on, he thought.
David had just started toward the pews when a voice, low and smooth, slid in from his right.
"David."
He stopped. Turned. Commissioner Saul Ashford stood there in a slate-blue suit that shimmered. Everything about him was styled to perfection: his smile, his posture, the way he made you feel like your presence was both welcome and deeply inconvenient.
"I'm very glad to see you here," Saul said. "But, you're looking a bit out of place," he continued, eyes flicking over David's scuffed sneakers and worn oxford. "Didn't get the dress code memo?"
David's throat tightened. "I came straight from the shelter."
"Ah. The shelter." Saul gave a slow nod, his tone caught somewhere between admiration and condescension. "A noble use of time, if a little... messy."
Without waiting for permission, he shrugged off his tailored sport coat and extended it toward David. "Here. Put this on. Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression."
David hesitated. The coat was heavy with meaning—status, control, performance, containment. He didn't want it. But refusing felt like a different kind of performance. A louder one. And Saul knew it.
"Thank you," David said flatly, slipping it on.
The lining was silk. The scent was cologne layered over something older—cedar, perhaps, or leather-bound books. The fabric hugged his shoulders with precision, like armor forged in another man's war. He could feel Saul's eyes on him, assessing the fit. Measuring how well David could be folded into the image.
"Jonathan will be pleased to see you here," Saul said after a pause. "He's grown quite a bit these past months. Pastor Goldrick's been a strong influence."
David followed Saul's gaze toward the front row. Johnny still hadn't moved. Not a glance. Not even a twitch.
"I'm sure he has," David murmured, the weight of the coat making it harder to breathe.
Saul offered a smile, all teeth. "Enjoy the service." He added, "And, try to open your heart to Him. Let the Lord enter in your heart."
He turned and vanished down a side aisle like a magician exiting stage left.
David sank into a pew near the middle. The polished wood pressed cold against his back. Around him, the congregation swayed slightly as they rose for a hymn. SoulWatches flashed. K-pop-infused hymns blasted through the air, their upbeat tempo and electronic beats grating on David's nerves.
Even Michelle was singing—lips barely moving, eyes distant. Her voice lost in the autotuned chorus. Her SoulWatch blinked a compliant green, but her jaw was tight, like she was biting down on something unspoken.
As the music swelled, FaithCoin notifications blinked again on wrists like prayer receipts.
Giving wasn't optional—it was a scoreboard.
He stayed seated, fists resting in his lap, fingers gripping the fabric so tightly the blood drained from his hands.
This coat wasn't for comfort. It was camouflage. A borrowed skin.
But David didn't come to blend in.
He came to make them see him.
Pastor Goldrick stepped forward from the pulpit, his voice lowering to something intimate, almost tender.
"We are not ashamed of obedience."
A few voices answered, almost reflexively.
"Amen."
"We are not afraid of correction."
"Amen," came louder this time—young voices, old voices, all echoing back like a wave returning to its source.
"We do not flee from judgment," Goldrick continued, eyes sweeping the congregation, "because judgment leads to grace."
"Grace," the congregation echoed, like a spell completing itself, binding the room in shared submission.
"We are not like the world—shifting, soft, forgetful. We are steady. We are loyal. We are called."
"Amen."
David sat frozen. Around him, SoulWatches blinked in time with the LED cross. Some congregants had tears in their eyes. Others swayed gently to the rhythm, eyes closed as if Goldrick were singing a lullaby.
But David felt no peace in it. Only pressure. Pressure in his chest, behind his eyes, under the fine silk of Saul's jacket. Pressure like something about to snap.
Pastor Goldrick's voice deepened, smoothed by certainty. He no longer spoke like a teacher. He preached like a judge.
"Disorder begins not in the streets, but in the heart," he said, each word deliberate.
Goldrick's tone shifted, tightening like a fist.
"First comes the joke," he said. "Harmless, they say. Then the indulgence—just this once. Then the excuse—'I was born this way.' Then the demand: to be celebrated in your sin. That's the arc of temptation. It never stops where it starts."
Murmurs rippled in agreement. A few people nodded. A teen near David clenched his hands tighter around the hymnal in his lap. Tears welled like glistening pearls in the corners of his eyes.
David's knee began to bounce—once, twice—before he forced it still. The movement had made Saul's coat whisper against the pew. Too loud. Too visible. Even his body wanted to rebel, and that terrified him.
"Some of you are smiling in secret," Goldrick said, his gaze skating the youth rows. "Hiding things. Carrying shadows into this place. But nothing stays hidden forever. Not from Him. Not from us. Your SoulWatches know. Your choices echo."
From somewhere in the middle rows, David caught a flash of movement—Michelle adjusting her position, her hand moving to cover her SoulWatch. Not hiding it. Just... holding it. Like she was protecting something.
"You are the future," Goldrick pressed on, his gaze piercing through the crowd, locking onto every youthful face he could find with an intensity that seemed to burn with fiery purpose, "You are the foundation. But even a cracked cornerstone can bring the whole house down. That's why we test you. That's why we love you."
David's eyes shot to Johnny.
Still still.
Still staring straight ahead.
But the red pulse on his SoulWatch quickened—blink, blink, blink. And his breathing had changed. Shorter. Controlled. Like he was counting each inhale. David recognized that pattern—Johnny used to breathe like that before a crucial pitch, when everything mattered too much.
"The smallest doubt, the quietest indulgence, can crack the soul wide open. That's how the enemy works—not with fire, but with suggestion. With the promise that you can rewrite your nature and still call it freedom."
David's stomach turned. He could feel the coat clinging tighter to him now, the silk lining turned to plastic wrap. His skin itched beneath it, breath shallow. He glanced toward Johnny, but the boy remained still.
Three rows ahead, someone's SoulWatch flashed red—just once—before returning to green. The woman touched her wrist quickly, guiltily, as if she could press the wrong feeling back inside. David wondered what memory had surfaced. What love she was trying to kill.
Goldrick's words rose in rhythm, riding the beat of sacred indignation.
"Some wolves do not snarl. They smile. Some temptations do not seduce. They speak sweetly, like old friends. Like memory. Like love that has been... misdirected."
David's fingers dug into the edge of the pew, his grip so tight it felt like the wood might splinter beneath the pressure. Beside him, a young mother dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Her SoulWatch pulsed green, green, green—perfect compliance while David's hidden wrists burned.
"And the enemy's favorite tactic? Familiarity. He returns in the form of your past. Of weakness you once mistook for love. He comes disguised in the face of someone who claims to care."
"It starts with a memory. Then a message. Then a meeting. It starts with a glance. Then a touch. Then a fall."
David's heart pounded. He wasn't sure if the words were directed at him, but the veins in his arms pulsed as though they were about to burst, each heartbeat hammering through his body.
They know. Or they want me to think they do.
He looked down the aisle. Still no movement from Johnny. Just a faint red blink on his SoulWatch. Perfect posture. Blank expression.
But something in his jaw—tightened?
"We are not afraid to name the truth here," Goldrick declared, hands raised, voice trembling with passion. "We do not water down sin. We do not redefine love to soothe rebellion. We are not ashamed to say that obedience is beautiful. That submission is freedom."
The LED cross behind him pulsed faster now. Red-white. Red-white. As if it, too, had a heartbeat.
David's ears buzzed.
Obedience is beautiful. Submission is freedom.
The coat on his shoulders was no longer fabric. It was a brand.
Goldrick took a beat, then launched into story—rich, grave, sanctified.
"Lot's wife looked back," he said. "And what happened? She turned to salt. Because sentimentality is the devil's way back in. Remember that. Those who look back too long begin to rot."
David clenched his jaw.
That's what they think love is. Rot. Memory. Weakness.
His mother's prayer beads seemed to burn against his chest where they lay hidden beneath his shirt. She'd believed in looking back, in honoring what was. "Memory is how we carry the dead forward," she'd said. But here, memory itself was the enemy.
"Some of you are thinking of past friendships. Past... affections. But the past is where the enemy hides. The past makes you hesitate. And hesitation, my friends, is rebellion dressed in nostalgia."
David's hands trembled against his knees. His breath came faster now.
Goldrick raised his arms slowly, like parting curtains before a final act.
"Freedom is not the absence of rules—it is the joy of right limits."
"Love is not the permission to sin—it is the courage to obey."
"Identity is not what you invent—it is what you inherit from God."
"Obedience... liberates. Rebellion.... isolates. Truth... truth, sanctifies."
The words fell like hammers, each line louder than the last.
David couldn't breathe.
The coat felt like a shroud. His skin burned under its weight, under the lies, under the smug assurance with which everyone around him nodded and whispered "Amen."
Around him, voices whispered "Amen" like breath shared between lovers. A current passed through the room—not just belief, but surrender. It pulsed through the air, through the floorboards, through the pews.
David felt it like a tide rising inside him. His spine straightened without permission. His hand—it twitched. For one terrifying second, it lifted an inch from his thigh, like it wanted to rise. Like it wanted to join them. Like he wanted to shout: Amen.
No. No.
He clenched his fingers into the fabric of Saul's jacket, pinning his hand down. The desire wasn't his—it had been planted. Choreographed. Conditioned. It was the room, the rhythm, the repetition.
But it had almost worked.
"We're not alone in this." Micah's words from the shelter echoed suddenly in David's mind. He could almost feel Abby's steady hand on his shoulder again, hear her voice: "We don't have time to fall apart. We have work to do."
The USB drive seemed to burn in his memory—those rows of kids at terminals, Noel's empty eyes. Michelle risking everything to join them. Even Micah, standing guard at the shelter door, finally choosing a side.
They'd all taken their stands. Made their choices.
David's breathing steadied. His team was out there somewhere—maybe not in this room, but they existed. They'd seen the truth. They'd chosen to fight.
He wasn't carrying this alone anymore.
"You're stronger than you know," Abby had said. Maybe she was right. Maybe strength wasn't about not being afraid. Maybe it was about being terrified and standing anyway.
David looked at the boy he loved. Just a flicker. Johnny remained still, yet something shifted. Just a flicker - a subtle lean forward, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly. A quick, shallow inhale broke the rhythm of his steady breathing.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was everything.
Then the pause came.
Pastor Goldrick lowered his hands.
He let the silence bloom.
Goldrick paused. Let the silence expand. Then: "If any among you have felt the Lord's correction this week... if you've wrestled with temptation and emerged victorious... if you've returned to the fold after wandering from the path—come. Let your testimony be a flame for others."
Silence.
For a moment, no one moved.
David's breath shook. He could feel the weight of the room shift forward, waiting. The moment was opening like a wound—and either he would speak into it, or the church would close it again with something polished and dead.
He looked at Johnny.
Still a statue.
Still his.
David stood.
{Beat 4}
At first, no one realized he had risen. Not really.
One or two heads turned. A rustle passed through the youth section like a shiver of wind over a field of glass.
David stepped into the aisle, his legs stiff. His hands trembled, fingers brushing the edge of Saul's borrowed coat. He didn't know what he was going to say.
But the words were already forming. Like static under his tongue.
He moved toward the front—not the stage, not yet, just enough to be seen. Enough to break the illusion.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out. Just dry air.
Say something. Anything.
His hands were shaking now—visible, obvious. He shoved them into his pockets, then pulled them out again. The coat felt too heavy. The silence too loud.
"I..." His voice cracked on the single syllable. Heat flooded his face.
Someone coughed. A few more heads turned. He could feel their eyes like spotlights, waiting for him to either speak or sit back down in shame.
Run. Just turn around and—
No. He thought of Noel at those terminals. Of Johnny's red SoulWatch pulsing like a wound. Of Eli's threat.
David swallowed hard, tasting copper and fear. His voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper.
"I used to come here," he said, his voice soft, dry. "Before everything changed."
He almost sat back down. Almost let the silence reseal. But something in him—maybe the memory of Johnny's laugh—held him upright.
Several people turned now. A few blinked, confused. One teen near the aisle actually recoiled, as if David had broken some sacred seal.
But not everybody flinched. David caught a glimpse of Chastity Rose, her perfect posture unchanged—but her fingers had stilled on her hymnal.
David swallowed again. "There was dust in the rafters. Velvet curtains. I played piano here once, for a school concert." His voice was still quiet, but it carried in the hush. "Back then, the light came through real windows."
"This place used to echo when you laughed. Now it swallows sound."
The words kept catching in his throat. Each sentence felt like pulling glass from his mouth. His hands wouldn't stop shaking—he pressed them flat against his thighs, but that just made the trembling move up his arms.
You're making a fool of yourself. They're all staring. Johnny's watching you fall apart—
Someone coughed. Another SoulWatch blinked yellow.
He looked toward the front row. Johnny hadn't moved—but his shoulders had drawn up, almost imperceptibly. A tell David knew from years of watching him pitch. The way Johnny's body locked when a play was about to go wrong.
David's breath shook. "I don't have a speech. I'm not... trying to destroy anything or re-write you gospel. I just—" His voice cracked.
"I just wanted to see him," he said again, softer this time. "One more time."
He turned slightly, eyes catching Johnny's profile.
David paused, swallowed again.
"I'm not here to rewrite the gospel. I'm just trying to remember the boy who—"
David's voice caught. Started again.
The words tumbled out, unplanned.
"You used to ice your shoulder after every game. Pretended it didn't hurt, but I could see." David's voice wavered. "I brought frozen corn from the shelter freezer. You laughed—said they worked better than the fancy stuff. Let me hold them against your skin until they went soft. You trusted me to take care of you."
He looked at Johnny directly now, memories flooding faster than he could sort them.
"That night at the theater—before it was this. You snuck Junior Mints in your jacket pocket. They melted everywhere." A broken laugh escaped him. "You spent half the movie trying to clean chocolate off my sleeve. Your hands were so gentle. Like I was something that mattered."
The sanctuary air felt too thin suddenly, like all the oxygen had been replaced with ice and judgment. David's knees trembled—he locked them, willing his body to stay upright. Each word scraped his throat raw, but stopping now would be worse than the burning.
The room had gone absolutely still.
"You asked me once what Buddhism was like. In the library, whispering. So careful, like someone might hear." David's voice dropped. "You said you wanted to understand the parts of me that didn't fit here."
"Remember the away game in Riverside? Your dad's car broke down. You fell asleep on my shoulder in that gross diner booth. Three hours." His voice cracked. "You drooled on my jacket. When you woke up, you were so embarrassed. But you didn't move away."
"Do you remember what that felt like?" he stared down Johnny.
David forced himself to continue, each memory cutting deeper.
"You used to text me pictures of dogs you saw on the street. Random dogs. No message, just... dogs. Because you knew they made me happy." His hands trembled. "You saved every ticket stub. Movies, games, even that terrible school play. Kept them in your glove compartment like evidence."
His voice broke completely.
"Evidence of what, Johnny? What were you trying to prove existed?"
His face was on fire now—he could feel the flush spreading down his neck, beneath the expensive collar. Tears made everything swim, turned the sea of SoulWatches into bleeding stars—red, amber, green—a constellation of judgment. His voice was shredding itself, but he couldn't stop. Wouldn't.
He was crying now, couldn't stop it.
"That stupid keychain I gave you—the baseball bat bottle opener—you acted like it was gold. You said once that maybe love was just God refusing to follow his own rules." A pause. "When did wondering become a sin? When did you stop seeing things you wanted to share with me?"
David looked directly at him, everything spilling out raw and unfiltered.
"Where is that boy? The one who trusted me enough to fall asleep? Who let me ice his shoulder? Who thought God might break rules for love? Who cared more about chocolate stains than salvation?"
The room held its breath.
Johnny's hand twitched—just once—toward his collar. An aborted movement, like he wanted to loosen something that was choking him. His eyes stayed forward. Not anger. Something worse—recognition fighting programming.
From her position beside the pulpit, Jez's eyes tracked between David and Johnny like a chess player seeing three moves ahead. When Johnny's hand twitched toward his collar, her lips pressed together—satisfaction or concern, impossible to tell.
"Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you don't remember any of it. Maybe I made more of it than it was. But I know what I felt. And I think some part of you did too."
David pressed on, words pouring now, uncontrolled and honest. "This place talks about love, but it's afraid of what love really is. It punishes tenderness. It sterilizes memory. It tries to break you into pieces so you'll fit better into someone else's design."
A whisper rose from the back—sharply silenced.
David shook his head. "I'm not trying to start a fight. I'm just done pretending I was never here."
He turned toward the stage now, where Goldrick stood unmoving. The man's expression was blank—calculating.
David's hands were fists at his sides. "I'm not ashamed of love. And if that means I don't belong here, fine. But at least let me say it out loud."
Stillness.
"Blasphemy," someone hissed from the youth section—but the word came out shaky, uncertain. The boy who said it gripped his own wrist where his SoulWatch pulsed an angry red, betraying the very accusation he'd just made.
"You want obedience? You've got a room full of it. Polished faces. Policed hearts. But obedience isn't love. It's fear, dressed up in praise."
His voice caught now. Rough. Loud.
"You think God needs you to be afraid of each other? That He wants this?"
Then— "Enough," came a voice from the front row. Heavy. Measured.
Doug stood, broad-shouldered and looming, the lines of his cadet uniform sharp beneath the overhead lights. His SoulWatch glowed green—compliant. Resolute.
A mother pulled her teenage daughter closer, but the girl resisted, craning her neck to see better. "Mom, he's just—" "Shh." But the mother's grip loosened, her own eyes wet.
He started forward, each step a warning.
David stood his ground, his heart battering his ribs like a trapped thing.
He could feel it closing in—the doctrine, the judgment, the expectation that he'd apologize, sit down, vanish into the machine.
But he didn't move.
Then, from the side of the congregation, another figure rose.
Micah.
No swagger. No smirk. Just a quiet steadiness as he stepped into Doug's path.
"Don't touch him," Micah said, voice low but firm.
Of all people—Micah. The boy who never chose sides, now standing like a wall between them.
Doug stopped. Surprised. Irritated.
The room stilled again.
David looked back at Johnny. His SoulWatch a solid red. His face hadn't changed. But his eyes—his eyes were no longer empty.
He scanned past him—past the pulpit—and caught sight of Michelle. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, knuckles pale against the fabric of her dress. She didn't move, didn't blink, but something in her expression flickered. Like she was holding something in. Or back.
They were watching.
Really watching.
David turned back toward the crowd. Toward Jez. Toward Goldrick. Toward whatever came next.
He didn't know what he'd say now.
But he knew one thing.
He wasn't leaving unseen.
For a moment, the silence felt endless. Then a scrape—leather soles against polished floor.
Doug surged forward.
But this time he wasn't alone.
Two other cadets flanked him—boys in the same fitted charcoal uniforms, their postures stiff, their expressions blank as obedience. They moved in formation, eyes locked on David like he was a threat to be neutralized.
"Remove him," Goldrick said. Calm. Controlled. Almost bored.
Jez's eyes didn't move. But her stillness gained weight, like the moment had become hers by default. Goldrick had given the order—but the room watched her reaction.
Doug didn't wait for confirmation. He lunged.
David's shoulders snapped back as hands closed around his arms. Rough. Professional. One cadet grabbed his elbow; another reached for his neck, as if he were some feral thing to be subdued.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Then the pews rustled—bodies shifting, uncertain.
"Don't!" a voice called. Then another. A girl in the youth section stood up, her SoulWatch flashing yellow. "He didn't do anything!"
David struggled. He wasn't strong, but he was slippery with adrenaline, his limbs jerking against the sudden violence.
"Let go of me—" he barked, twisting, kicking at the leg of the nearest cadet. One of them cursed, and another arm clamped tighter across his chest.
Jez had not moved. She stood beside the pulpit like a statue. Watching.
Micah moved again—faster this time.
"Hey!" he shouted, shoving Doug hard in the shoulder. The impact knocked Doug off balance for half a second—just enough for David to stagger free from one of the boys.
Micah slipped between them and David again like a blade.
"You think this is strength?" Micah growled, eyes darting between Doug and the others.
"You think dragging someone off stage is righteousness?"
"You don't understand what he's doing," Doug snapped, breath heavy.
"I understand exactly," Micah said. "You're afraid. That's all this is."
More murmurs now. Uneven. A dozen people stood—then sat again. SoulWatches blinked yellow, then green, then red. A woman near the aisle clutched her bag like a lifeline.
Michelle had half-risen from her pew, caught between sitting and standing. Her mother's hand on her arm held her back, but Michelle's eyes were locked on David. Not with pity. With something fiercer.
Goldrick raised a single hand—but didn't speak.
Doug stepped forward again. "Move, Micah."
"No."
Then Johnny stood.
Not smooth. Not practiced. He stood like someone fighting gravity—one hand gripping the pew in front of him, knuckles white. His body swayed slightly, as if two different programs were running at once.
Every movement in the room halted.
He didn't speak. He didn't raise a hand. But the red glow on his SoulWatch had gone solid—no longer pulsing, just burning steady like a fever.
His mouth opened. Closed. His eyes flickered between David and Doug—not empty anymore, but fractured. Like looking through broken glass. One part recognition, one part training, one part something David had never seen before: fear.
Not fear of David. Fear of what David was making him remember.
Doug hesitated. Even he could see something was glitching in Johnny's programming.
The congregation sat, divided.
And Jez finally moved.
One step forward. One raised brow. Nothing more.
But it was enough.
Doug stepped back. Just one pace.
The other cadets looked to each other. Waited.
Goldrick did not nod. He did not shake his head.
But Jez spoke:
"Let him finish." Not loud. Not soft. Just final.
David stood there, panting, the welt of a bruise already blooming beneath his collar. But he was still upright. Still visible.
Still speaking.
And now, nothing would stop him.
David stood alone in the aisle.
His breath ragged. His collar pulled askew. One shoe untied from the scuffle.
Saul's coat clung to his frame like dead weight—rich fabric gone limp.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the coat buttons. One by one, he undid them—not with flair, not with drama, but with precision. With purpose.
He slipped the coat from his shoulders.
Held it for a beat.
Then let it fall.
The sound of fine wool and gold buttons hitting marble echoed like a quiet slap.
A sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the pews.
Then nothing.
The congregation didn't breathe.
SoulWatches blinked in confused dissonance—green, yellow, flickering red.
David stepped back. Not toward the stage. Not toward the exit. Just back—toward the people. Toward Johnny.
The red LED cross still pulsed overhead. Steady. Blinking.
Johnny hadn't moved.
And then—
His lips parted. Just barely. And David saw him mouth something. Not a word. Just a shape. Could have been "no." Could have been "go." Could have been nothing at all.
But his eyes—his eyes were tracking now. Following David's movement with something that wasn't empty or full but somewhere between. Like a radio trying to find its frequency. Like someone remembering how to see.
His hand moved to his chest, fingers spreading over his heart. Not a gesture of faith. Something more primal. Like checking if it was still beating.
Micah exhaled. Just one breath. Audible in the hush.
Jez tilted her head—not in judgment, not in pity. Just... studying. Like a sculptor pausing before the final strike.
Goldrick didn't move at all.
The whole room was caught between breath and decision. Between ritual and rupture.
And David?
He stood there.
A boy in a ruined shirt, beneath a bleeding cross of light.
Silent.
Unbroken.
David lifted his chin. Turned. And walked—not fled, not rushed—toward the doors.
Each step an echo in the silence.
Behind him, Saul's coat lay crumpled on marble like a shed skin.