The scent of ash and blood hung thick in the air, clinging to the tattered bones of the ruined church like incense. Firelight danced wildly across broken stone and rusted steel, casting warped shadows of men who moved like wraiths. Their chants rose in unison—“All shall see. All shall serve. All shall be made new.” Amid the carnage, at the heart of it all, stood a tall, gaunt figure dressed in a black coat that flowed like a shroud. His crimson-lensed glasses glowed in the haze, and his lips moved in silent prayer as the screams of raiders echoed in the background.

Abraham Hellshire.

He had seen this moment in a vision—long ago, when the miracle drug first coursed through his veins and tore open the veil between man and meaning. A child of chaos, born of fire and loss, he had clawed his way through the Wastelands with a singular purpose: to bring order to a world drowning in ruin. He forged a faith from madness and blood, built an empire from ashes. The All Seeing followed him not out of fear, but devotion. For to them, he was prophet, king, and savior.

But even a prophet bows to something higher.

You.

When you were taken—ripped from the sanctuary, from his side—he wept not in sorrow, but in fury. He saw your face again, just as he had in the lab all those years ago, in the grip of the drug's divine madness. You, the radiant figure from the sky, the god wrapped in mortal skin. To harm you was to strike at the very core of his purpose. And now, the punishment had come.

He stepped over a dying raider, silent and regal, crimson glasses reflecting the flames as he approached. His hands, gloved and steady, reached for the chains that bound you. The cold iron fell away at his touch.

“You’re safe now,” he said, voice low, reverent. “Let us return home. The flock awaits their angel.”

And behind him, his followers knelt, bloodied and breathless, whispering prayers in your name.