David checked his phone again. Nothing. Just the home screen, blank and smug, staring back at him like it knew better.
No messages.
No warnings.
That was worse than getting one.
The silence didn't feel safe. It felt strategic. He tossed it facedown on the table and immediately regretted it—picked it up again, checked the time, locked it.
Where were they?
He stood.
Sat.
Stood again.
His fingers found the edge of the chipped laminate table and traced the same corner over and over until the skin on his fingertip started to burn.
He didn't mind.
The small pain was real, immediate. Unlike everything else. He tried not to think about the service. About Johnny. About the look that had flickered across his face before he shut it down like a window in a storm. About the way Goldrick had just said "Remove him" like it was routine.
Shiloh whimpered over from her crate, nails ticking softly across the linoleum. She laid her chin gently on his shoe. David didn't look down, but his hand drifted toward her ears.
She didn't flinch this time.
A small win.
"Guess we're both waiting on people," he muttered.
Somewhere in the kennels, a dog whined—high, anxious. Another answered with a low woof. The radiator clicked its evening rhythm. The staff room smelled like old coffee and dog shampoo—familiar, safe. Nothing like the sterile air-conditioning of the church.
David's stomach turned.
What if no one came?
He clenched his jaw and sat down hard, hands folded tight between his knees. This wasn't just some drama anymore. People were disappearing.
Noel.
The other boys.
That list on the drive.
The numbers didn't lie—but the church did. And they were good at it. The staff room door creaked. David jolted upright, heart lurching.
They found me.
He was halfway to the back exit before his brain caught up to his body.
No footsteps.
No command voice.
Just the soft, worn squeak of sneakers.
Abby stepped in, laptop hugged to her chest, her expression unreadable but her presence unmistakable.
David's shoulders dropped.
Just a little.
"You came," he said.
"Of course I came," Abby replied, already crossing to the table.
"We don't have time to fall apart. We have work to do."
The room felt different now—less like a bunker, more like a starting line.
Abby opened the laptop without another word. The soft hum of the machine filled the space between them as she connected the USB drive. Her fingers moved fast, precise, like she'd already sorted through the worst of it in her head and now just needed the data to cooperate.
David leaned in but kept his distance. The last time he'd seen that drive, he'd barely understood what he was looking at.
He still didn't.
But the names—Noel's, and others he barely knew—were plain.
Brutal.
Final.
They were tied to donation records, rehab intakes, transfer logs. Some of the entries were barely redacted, as if whoever wrote them didn't think anyone would ever look.
"Did you go through everything?" David asked.
Abby nodded, eyes still on the screen.
"Most of it. Enough to know we're late to the story."
She turned the screen slightly, revealing a spreadsheet—columns of cryptocurrency transaction IDs, donation routing numbers, church program names, and timestamps. Each one was sterile, detached, and horrifying.
"They're running everything through FaithCoin," she said. "The youth programs, the donations, even the retreats. Some of the largest transfers match the same dates the Pathlight kids stopped showing up to class."
David's stomach dropped.
"Noel?"
Abby's voice dropped.
"There's a bounty system. Report 'moral violations,' earn FC. Kids are turning in their own parents."
David felt sick.
"How much?"
"Depends on the violation. Minor stuff—dress code, language—50 FC. But behavioral issues?"
She clicked to another tab.
"500 FC for 'emotional deviance.' 1000 for 'spiritual rebellion.'"
David clutched the beads in his pocket—hot now, like they'd soaked up every name, every number.
"Wait, go back," He pointed.
"What's that about housing?" Abby clicked. "FW-compliant families get approved for the good apartments. Noncompliant..." She scrolled. "Look at these listings. 'Basement unit, no windows, shared bathroom.'"
"That's why families can't afford to leave Stricton," David said, understanding dawning. "They're trapped." Abby clicked.
Scrolled.
Then clicked again.
"There," she said softly. "Right here. A payment spike tagged to 'Pathlight Rehabilitation Logistics'—one week before Noel disappeared."
David's vision tunneled.
The name was right there, plain as day.
A line item like he was an inventory withdrawal.
One week.
That was all the warning Noel had.
His hands went cold. On screen, his friend had been reduced to a transaction—a number, a date, a dollar amount.
Shiloh stirred from her spot by his shoe, sensing the tension. David's hand drifted automatically toward her fur, grounding himself.
Abby leaned back and let out a quick breath, "We've waited more than enough time," she stated, shutting the file.
"They rely on people being too frightened or bewildered to do anything. We can't afford to be either." David nodded, throat tight.
"We won't."
Just then, the door clicked again.
David jumped.
His eyes shot to the door.
For half a second, he thought it was them.
Micah stepped in, backpack slung low, hoodie half-zipped.
"Told my mom I was staying late for group Bible study," he said with a shrug. "Figured that was close enough."
He froze mid-step when he saw the screen over Abby's shoulder—his smirk caught halfway to forming, then dropped. His eyes narrowed, reading.
"Is that—"
"FaithCoin," Abby said, not turning from the screen. "Everything runs through it. The programs. The retreats. Pathlight."
Micah's eyes flicked to David's, then back to the data.
"Noel?" he asked, voice low.
Abby nodded once, then tapped the trackpad.
"We found the spike. One week before he vanished."
Micah didn't move.
Not at first.
Then he sat back slowly, letting the weight of it settle.
"I thought I was paranoid," he said quietly. "That I was seeing patterns where there weren't any. But this..." His voice broke, just for a second. "This is real."
David watched him closely. The usual bite in Micah's tone was gone. In its place was something quieter.
Hungrier.
More dangerous.
"We're burning this to the ground, right?" Micah asked. "Not just leaking it. Not just 'raising awareness.' We're ending it."
Abby didn't answer. She scrolled for the folder labeled "Testimonies" and double-clicked. The next file list blinked open.
Names.
Audio logs.
Timecodes. The fan on the laptop kicked louder. And the room fell silent.
All three of them looked up—David halfway to standing, Abby's hand paused over the trackpad, Micah going still.
Michelle stepped into the room.
No braid—just tangled hair, like she'd been pulling her hands through it all night. No lip gloss—her lips were chapped, bitten. And no SoulWatch— just a pale band of skin where it used to be, like a scar still healing.
When had she taken it of?
What did that cost her?
How many points?
Her eyes landed on each of them in turn—Abby, Micah, David—before finally settling on the screen.
"Is that it?" she asked quietly, pointing to the USB.
No one answered at first.
Micah narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"
Abby didn't move.
Just closed the folder she'd opened and tapped the trackpad, screen going dark.
David found his voice. "Why now?"
Michelle looked at him, and the defiance she usually wore like armor wasn't there.
Just exhaustion. And something else—something raw.
Her voice wavered, but she didn't stop.
"I asked Pastor Goldrick where Noel was. He said he had a breakthrough and was taken to an extended recovery site. I asked where. He said I was 'too close to the subject.' That I was 'emotionally compromised.'"
Like that was a disqualifier.
Micah let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. "You are."
Michelle nodded. "Yeah. I am. I'm here."
Silence fell for a moment. Shiloh's tail thumped once against the floor. Michelle looked at the laptop, then back to David.
"I don't know what this all means yet. But I want to help."
David glanced at Abby. She gave the slightest nod and pushed the extra chair out with her foot. Michelle took it. Micah didn't look thrilled, but he didn't argue. Just leaned back and crossed his arms.
Michelle explained, "I thought about walking away. About pretending I didn't know what I know."
"But then I remembered something Pastor Goldrick said to my father last month, right before Pathlight moved campuses. Something about needing to 'boost FaithCoin returns before mid-quarter audits.' Goldrick just laughed and said, 'The good ones go fastest,'- They talk like that when they think no one's listening."
Micah scoffed. "Jesus."
Michelle hugged her arms around herself and looked directly at Abby, "I don't have access to what you have. But I hear things. I'm at every meeting, every rehearsal, every photo op. I see who they promote. Who disappears. And I know Noel didn't just leave. He was erased."
Micah stared at her for a beat, something unreadable tightening in his expression.
Abby glanced at David, then nodded. "We think he's still alive."
Michelle exhaled, long and shaky. "Then I want in."
Nobody spoke.
David watched her, saw the crack in her voice, the way her shoulders held tension like she didn't know how to belong here. He didn't know how to let her in either. But she was already here.
Then she added, more quietly, "I've still got some group chats from recruitment teams. School accounts. I could feed you event info, soft spots. Silently."
"Are you sure?" Abby asked. "Once you cross this line—"
Michelle uncrossed her arms and leaned back. Her fingers found a loose thread on her sweatshirt, twisting it tight.
"My dad has 40% of our portfolio in FaithCoin." She laughed, bitter and short. "He says it's 'the future.' Mom wears her watch everywhere now—if she takes it of, I lose my spot in Advanced Placement next year."
She looked at David, then away. "Doug's parents got promoted. They haven't taken of their watches in six weeks."
Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "They sleep with them on, shower, everything. He brags about their 'perfect compliance score.' It boosts his allowance."
A pause.
Michelle's hand moved to her bare wrist, rubbing the pale line where her own watch used to be.
"So yeah," she said, meeting Abby's eyes. "I'm sure."
Abby reopened the laptop.
The fan whirred louder.
And for the first time, the room felt like a team.
David leaned over the table, outlining a possible access point into the church's administrative wing—something Michelle had just mentioned, a calendar glitch she'd seen in a group chat.
Micah was taking notes with a stolen campus notepad, his pen moving fast, silent.
Abby worked beside him, cross-referencing building maps and time-stamped file dumps.
Michelle hovered near the corner, arms crossed again—but differently now.
Not guarded.
Focused.
The door opened without warning.
Johnny stood there, chest heaving, eyes wild.
His hoodie was inside out, like he'd thrown it on in the dark.
No uniform.
No polish.
Just raw edges and ragged breathing.
David's heart slammed. Every cell wanted to reach for him—every thought screamed don't.
Everyone froze.
His eyes scanned the room, landing on David—and stopped.
"What did you do to me?" he asked.
Not loud.
But sharp enough to cut.
In the sudden quiet, the shelter's overnight sounds seemed too loud—the hum of the industrial freezer, a dog's sleepy grumble, the tick of claws on concrete as someone shifted in their crate.
David stood slowly.
"Johnny—"
"You humiliated me. In front of the whole church."
"It wasn't about you," David said, trying to keep his voice steady. "It was about them. About what they're doing... What they've done to us."
"You knew why I was up there. You knew they'd come for me after." Johnny's voice cracked. "You stood up and said—" His jaw stopped—like the words hurt to say. "You talked about us. About me. In front of everyone."
"I talked about love," David said quietly.
"You talked about memory. About remembering who I used to be." Johnny's laugh was bitter. "Like I'm some broken thing you need to fix."
"That's not what I—"
"You said you wanted to see me 'one more time.' Like I'm already gone." His voice dropped. "My watch stayed red for twenty minutes after that. Twenty minutes, David. Do you know what that means?"
Michelle stepped in, moving between them before either could say more.
"Johnny, stop. We're all on the same side here—"
"No," he snapped. "We're not. I came to find you, and instead I find this?"
He gestured to the screen, to Abby's files, to Micah and David.
"Some kind of... of conspiracy club?"
Michelle didn't flinch.
"Call it what you want. We're doing what you should be doing."
Johnny looked at her like she'd just slapped him.
"You think you know what I should be doing?"
"I know you're scared," she said. "But you're not the only one. Noel's missing. David didn't make that happen. The church did."
"You don't get it. After what David said—about not being ashamed of love, about obedience being fear—they're watching me now. Eli pulled me aside. Goldrick wants a 'private session.' Dad said..." He stopped, shoulders tight.
His hands curled into fists.
Abby stood now too.
Calm.
Measured.
"Johnny, no one's asking you to pick a side. But you're here. That means something."
He looked away, jaw tightening, then relaxing again. The fight in his shoulders dropped, just barely. Johnny's hand moved to the doorframe, gripping it like an anchor. His whole body seemed caught between staying and feeing, muscles taut with indecision.
"I shouldn't have come," he said.
"Then why did you?" David asked quietly.
Johnny looked directly at David for the first time.
"Did you mean it? What you said about... about still..."
He couldn't finish.
David's throat tightened, "Every word."
Something flickered in Johnny's eyes—pain, longing, fear all at once. His mouth opened, then closed.
He looked at Michelle.
Then David.
Then down at Shiloh, who had padded closer, ears low, eyes watchful.
"I don't know," Johnny said. "I just... I didn't know where else to go."
David's chest ached.
Johnny took a step back.
"Just... be careful," he muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.
"You don't know what they're capable of."
And with that, he turned and left.
The door clicked shut behind him—soft this time.
Nobody spoke for a long while.
The planning resumed.
But the air had changed again.
Johnny had seen the room—and hadn't torn it down.
Not yet.
They began to pack up.
Micah still scribbled ideas.
Michelle double-checked group chats for cover stories.
Abby had the drive in her pocket.
David looked around at them, amazed—for once, they feel like a unit.
"Okay," Abby said. "We know the entry point. We know the time. If we move fast—"
"—We don't get caught," Micah finished, tossing his notebook into his bag.
David exhaled, feeling the burn in his chest settle.
Almost hope.
They step out into the cold night air.
The street is empty, the glow from the shelter's windows pooling weakly onto the sidewalk behind them.
A woman was waiting just beyond the reach of the light.
Coat buttoned high.
Clipboard tucked under one arm.
Her heels should have clicked on the pavement.
They didn't.
She'd been standing still that long.
"Nice plan," she said evenly.
"Not bad... For amateurs."
They froze.
Abby instinctively stepped in front of David.
David's blood went cold.
That voice. He knew that voice.
"Jez," Michelle breathed.
"My real name is Jezelyn Ruiz Feinstein," the woman adds, flashing a gold badge.
"Child Protective Services. Federal Agent."
She paused, eyes tracking across each of their faces.
"You're going to need me."
Her eyes found David's, "Especially you, after that stunt at church. No SoulWatch, public defiance? They've already started your intake paperwork. I can only buy you so much time."
From inside the shelter, muffed but clear, Shiloh barked once—sharp, alert, and strangely warm.
David knew what that meant.
Recognition.
He looked back toward the shelter.
His stomach flipped.
When he turned back, Jezelyn was already walking toward them- eyes like floodlights.