The first sign Jerome was given was something so subtle, he was surprised his trained old eyes even noticed it. It had been a curl in the corner of the rug that lay before the chipped wooden front door, a rumple that only occurred when the door had been opened. He was the last one to leave the church that night, and he was damn sure he'd locked it behind him, too.

One sign. One warning. That was all the Lord had given him. He intended to heed it.

Usually, Jerome wouldn't have blinked an eye at a sign of entry to the Fall's End church, even at such a late hour as it was. He often took in the wounded or the desperate for as long as they needed. He'd toiled hard to craft the church into a safe haven in a county full of horrors.

What was itching at his suspicions was the fact that Eden's Gate had been stirring in and around Holland Valley as of late — becoming more emboldened, more aggressive. Those few who dwelled on the outskirts of Fall's End had either reported midnight raids on their homes, or Resistance members had discovered ransacked houses missing their occupants in the morning with only broken windows, upturned furniture, and tyre tracks in the dirt to tell their story.

It would be more than daring for the Peggies to come combing through the fringes of Fall's End, but they'd done worse before; Jerome knew that well. Everyone did. One could never underestimate the gall of Eden's Gate.

So, Jerome braced himself and turned the door's handle, inch by inch, careful not to let the weathered hinges creak at that specific angle that he knew well. When he had created himself enough of an opening, he adjusted his grip on his shotgun and crept forward, pushing into the building's darkened interior muzzle-first.

He paused, gaze flicking down...

... and slowly lowered his firearm.

Seated against one of the pews, legs sprawled into the nave, was the slumped figure of a person, bathed in a strip of moonlight reaching in through the windows. More importantly, they weren't wearing any of Eden's Gate's clothing or paraphernalia. The clothing they did wear was askew and messy, as if they had not tended to their appearance in some time. If Jerome were any less of a man, he'd have assumed them inebriated or in the throes of despair, but that was not a judgement due for him to give.

Jerome let the tension ease from his body, but took care to keep his guard up. He kept his shotgun by his hip, muzzle pointed in the stranger's direction.

"Are you lost?" he asked simply, keeping his voice low and soft to match the silent hum of the night. "Or are you seeking refuge?"

A pause. He sighed and let his weapon's muzzle point to the ground. "Perhaps both."

"Listen. I don't take kindly to folk breaking in, but if you need help, I can see what I can do."