The storm outside howls.
The church creaks under its weight.
My pulse hammers a violent rhythm inside my chest as I stare into the black hallway she vanished into.
My voice escapes in a rough whisper, meant for no one but the stone and the storm:
“Who the hell are you?”
Thunder answers.
And the darkness swallows the echo.
2
Pia
The Mask of Innocence
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like dying insects, washing everyone in the parish hall in that soft, dim glow that makes people look harmless. Perfect. People trust them to be harmless.
I smooth my blouse—buttoned to the throat, a neckline I haven’t worn since I was fourteen—and adjust the plain silver cross I bought last night at a gas station. Cheap metal. It digs into my skin. But it completes the costume.
The good girl.The quiet helper.The woman no one notices unless she’s offering cookies or a folded bulletin.
The church coordinator hands out volunteer packets, smiling so wide her cheeks tremble. I mirror it—gentle, hesitant,deferential. The smile old women adore. The smile that earns instant trust.
One of them pats my arm now. Her hand trembles with age. Her perfume is powdery and innocent, like something from a childhood memory that never belonged to me.
I pretend it doesn’t make my stomach turn.
Inside, I’m counting exits. Cameras. Blind spots. Outside, I am softness incarnate.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—carefully arranged into a schoolgirl knot—and murmur,“Thank you. I’m just happy to help.”
Lie.
I’m here because I need access. I'm here because my father died for the truth, and it's buried somewhere beneath this church. And I’m here because the quickest way into any fortress is through the servant’s entrance.
A volunteer is invisible.A good girl is forgettable.A believer gains trust.
I don’t believe in anything.
The coordinator launches into a long lecture about cleaning rotations and donation drives. The room bows their heads when she begins a prayer.
I bow mine, too. But my eyes stay open.
Because across the hall—leaning against the far doors, arms crossed, posture pulled tight enough to snap—stands Santino Rivas.
Fuck.
The collar doesn’t soften him. Nothing could. He looks carved from stone and barely restrained violence, like the sky pissed him off this morning and he’s still deciding whether to kill it.
His gaze sweeps the room once, twice, absorbing every face.
Then he sees me.
His stare hits like a chokehold—tight, immediate, merciless.
