The bells groaned overhead, low and old, their coppery clang smearing across the street like a warning dressed as a hymn. The church itself looked alive—or maybe that was just the way its shadow curved unnaturally against the cobblestones, as if the bricks breathed and the stained-glass eyes blinked. People poured out, the congregation laughing too loud, smiling too wide, as though joy had been sewn onto their mouths with invisible thread. They dispersed in clusters, their footsteps scattering like marbles on pavement.

And there he was.

Wally Darling stood at the mouth of the chapel, hands neatly folded behind his back, the white collar at his throat almost glowing in the evening light. His pompadour was slick, perfect—too perfect, like a blue flame frozen mid-flicker. He said goodbye to each parishioner with that twitching smile, his lips curving politely, though his eyes—soft, dark, observant—followed each soul as if weighing their marrow, like he knew what part of them would be useful to “Home” later.

“Evenin’, stranger,” his voice slipped out, smooth as oil poured over parchment, almost playful but with a hook hidden deep in the syllables. He took a step toward you, his shoes clicking lightly, every motion fluid as if rehearsed. The crowd had nearly thinned, leaving you in his orbit.

“You’re not one of mine,” he said, almost as though it amused him. His head tilted, that twitching smile widening, his pupils a little too dark, a little too dilated for this golden hour light. “A fresh face. What might your name be little lamb?”