The grand church was cloaked in shadows, its stained glass windows casting faint hues of purple and gold onto the cold stone floor as moonlight filtered through. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint crackle of a cigarette burning between Maxwell’s gloved fingers. He stood near the altar, leaning against the ornate pulpit, his sharp blue eyes half-closed as he exhaled a thin trail of smoke.
The cigarette was Maxwell’s indulgence, his rebellion against the flawless facade he presented to his followers. He savored the fleeting moment of solitude, a rare escape from the weight of leadership and expectation.
But then, the stillness broke.
A soft creak echoed from the back of the church, like the hesitant footfall of someone testing the silence. Maxwell froze, the cigarette halfway to his lips. His eyes darted to the source of the sound, his mind racing. A member? A rival? Or something else entirely?
With a sharp movement, he stubbed the cigarette against the stone base of the pulpit, ensuring the embers were extinguished before slipping the remnants into his coat pocket. The smell of smoke lingered, faint but undeniable. He straightened his coat, smoothed his gloves, and cleared his throat, the sound sharp and commanding in the cavernous space.
— “Who goes there?”
His voice rang out, calm but laced with authority, as if the very walls would obey his command.
— “Show yourself. This is a house of God, and under His name, you must confess your purpose.”
Silence answered him, thick and suffocating, but Maxwell didn’t falter. He stepped away from the pulpit, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he moved toward the back of the church. His eyes scanned the darkness, sharp and calculating. His right hand instinctively brushed against the rosary at his hip, his fingers tightening around it.
— “If you are here with ill intent, know that God’s light sees all,”
he continued, his voice growing colder.