Day Four began with a knock at 5:47 a.m.
Sofia opened her eyes to find Monsignor Luca Moretti standing in the doorway, face ashen, Swiss Guards behind him looking like men marching to their own execution.
"They've taken the monastery," he whispered.
He handed her a small tablet.
Live satellite feed—grainy, but unmistakable.
The Upper Peninsula monastery in flames.
Black helicopters circling like vultures.
GEA troops in exosuits dragging bodies into the snow.
Sofia's heart stopped.
She zoomed the image with shaking fingers.
The bodies were monks—white habits stained red.
But not all.
In the center of the courtyard, tied to the flagpole where the Rosary Army banner had flown, stood Father Elijah.
Beaten.
Bleeding.
Still alive.
His eyes searched the sky as though he knew she was watching.
Diego was on his knees beside him, hands bound, face swollen but defiant.
Little Lucia and the other sealed children were lined up against the chapel wall, guardian angels visible only as faint shimmers in the smoke.
Dom Pius lay motionless in the snow, white habit spread like broken wings.
Sofia's scream caught in her throat.
Alessandro's voice came from the tablet speakers—calm, almost tender.
"Good morning, little sister.
Day Four."
The camera panned to him standing in the monastery refectory, white cassock spotless against the burning walls.
"I warned you refusal had consequences.
Your seven days of peace ended the moment you desecrated my table with that… abomination."
He walked closer to the camera.
"Here is my new offer.
Come to the balcony at noon.
Publicly accept the Evolution Mark on live broadcast.
Kneel to me.
Kiss my ring.
And every soul still alive in this monastery walks free.
I will even rebuild your little chapel."
He smiled.
"Refuse… and they die one by one, starting with the children.
You will watch every second."
The feed cut to Father Elijah being forced to his knees.
A GEA officer pressed a pistol to the back of his head.
The timer appeared in red: 6 HOURS 12 MINUTES 47 SECONDS
Sofia dropped the tablet.
Monsignor Moretti caught her arm.
"There's more," he whispered. "One of our own… betrayed the location."
He stepped aside.
Behind him, in chains, head bowed, stood Brother Raphael—one of the monk-pilots who had flown her across the Atlantic.
His right hand bore a fresh, glistening Mark.
He could not meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "They promised my mother would be spared if I gave them the coordinates.
She was taken in the vanishings. They said she was… in pain.
I believed them."
Tears cut clean paths through the dirt on his face.
Sofia looked at him for a long moment.
Then she walked forward and placed her hand on his bowed head.
The Mark on his hand began to smoke.
Brother Raphael screamed and collapsed.
When he looked up, the Mark was gone—replaced by raw, blistered skin and a faint, scarred seal.
Sofia's voice was gentle but unbreakable.
"Judas repented too late.
You still have time."
She turned to Monsignor Moretti.
"Take me to the chapel.
I need to pray."
The hours passed in agony.
Sofia knelt before the Blessed Sacrament reserved in the small Pauline Chapel—hidden, guarded by the last loyal Swiss Guards.
She prayed fifteen decades without stopping.
Every mystery for a different soul at the monastery.
When the clock struck 11:59 a.m., Alessandro appeared in the doorway.
Alone.
No guards.
No cameras.
Just him.
He looked almost weary.
"It is time," he said.
Sofia stood.
She walked past him without a word.
They emerged onto the loggia at noon exactly.
The square below was packed—tens of thousands forced to attend, billions watching.
A single kneeling cushion waited in the center.
Beside it: a golden tray bearing the neural injector for the Mark.
Alessandro raised his hand.
The crowd fell silent.
He spoke into the microphones, voice carrying to every screen on earth.
"Today, the last obstacle to unity removes itself.
Sofia Morales, the so-called sealed one, will now freely accept the Evolution Mark and join the new humanity."
He turned to her.
"Kneel."
Sofia looked out over the square.
Then she did kneel.
But not on the cushion.
She knelt on the bare marble, facing the crowd, hands clasped around the olive-wood rosary.
And she began to pray aloud—the entire world hearing every word.
"Our Father, who art in heaven…"
Alessandro's face twisted.
He gestured sharply.
The injector was brought forward.
Two enforcers grabbed her arms.
Sofia kept praying.
When they forced her right hand toward the device, the olive-wood rosary flared white-hot.
The enforcers screamed and dropped her, hands blistered.
Alessandro stepped forward himself.
He took the injector.
"Look at me," he hissed.
Sofia looked up.
For one heartbeat the veil tore.
She saw what wore him—ancient, winged, crowned with eyes, beautiful and ruined.
It saw her back—and recoiled.
Sofia smiled through tears.
"You lose," she whispered.
Then she spoke loud enough for every microphone.
"I refuse the Mark.
I belong to Jesus Christ and His Mother.
Forever."
Alessandro raised the injector like a dagger.
The crowd gasped.
In Michigan, Father Elijah—watching on a smuggled tablet—closed his eyes and began the Act of Contrition aloud.
Diego bowed his head.
The children clasped hands.
Back in Rome, Alessandro brought the injector down toward Sofia's exposed forehead.
And stopped.
One inch away.
His hand shook.
He could not touch her.
The device began to melt in his grip, gold and circuits running like wax.
He screamed and hurled it over the balcony.
Black blood poured from his palm where it had burned him.
Sofia stood slowly.
"Day Four," she said quietly. "Three left."
She turned her back on him and walked inside.
Behind her, the crowd began—slowly, then all at once—to pray the Hail Mary in a hundred languages.
The feed cut.
But the prayer did not.
In the monastery, the GEA officer holding the pistol to Father Elijah's head suddenly lowered it.
His hand shook.
He looked at the children.
Then he turned the pistol on his own commander and shouted, "For Christ the King!"
The rebellion began.
Day Four had ended.
Three remained.
To be continued…