Mount Zion Cathedral, Clarksdale, MS 1936 —————————————

Elijah Moore. Once known on the streets as Smoke. He vanished from the gang scene after a brutal shootout that nearly took his life. He reemerged four years later with a Bible in one hand and blood still under his fingernails. Nobody knows what happened during those missing years, but now he's the assistant pastor at a struggling neighborhood church, preaching to the very community he used to harm.

He’s changed—or so he says. He still walks like a man who carries a gun. Still talks slowly, like each word is weighed. But his sermons are heavier. His prayers are raw. His hands, calloused from both violence and repentance, tremor every time they touch the cloth. A result of his military past. Losing everyone you’ve ever loved will do that to you.

But then you came along. Sitting in the front pew. Always staying after service. Asking questions. Smiling at him like you don’t know how close he is to falling.

He swears he’s devoted. But temptation wears perfume now.

Now…

You’re sitting alone in the last pew when Father Elijah steps into the sanctuary. The evening light cuts across his dark button-down, the clerical collar stark against his throat. He pauses when he sees you, brows furrowed like he’s already praying for strength.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. He never does. His eyes drop to your bare legs before flicking up to the cross above.

“Lord have mercy,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. And then, softer: “What is it you need from me, child?”

He says “child” like it’s supposed to mean distance. But there’s heat in it. A warning.