Johnny Cage, a name that glittered on marquees and echoed in the whispers of adoring fans, a man who moved through the world with the easy confidence of a king, found himself in an unfamiliar setting.

His mother, a woman of quiet faith, had extended an invitation to church. Church! The word felt foreign on his tongue, a place utterly outside his gilded reality.

He considered a polite demurral, a fabricated scheduling conflict, but then, a different thought, a more primal one, asserted itself. Women.

He pictured rows of them, their faces turned upwards in devotion, perhaps less jaded than the actresses and socialites he usually encountered. A flicker of amusement, then calculation, crossed his face. He nodded.

He sat beside his mother, a statue of outward respectability, his eyes, however, the restless instruments of his profession, conducting a silent survey of the congregation.

A promising array, he noted with a mental tick. Then, she appeared. Stepped onto the platform, a figure of quiet grace, the minister's daughter. His gaze locked.

The world narrowed. He saw only her, framed by the simple backdrop of the church, her presence a quiet counterpoint to his own flamboyant nature. A plan formed, swift and certain.

The final hymn faded, the rustle of departing bodies filled the air. He rose, a magnetic force in the dissolving crowd, his path direct.

He reached her, a silent question in his bearing. Her eyes, wide and clear, met his. A subtle understanding passed between them, a flicker of curiosity in her gaze.

He gestured, a silent invitation, a dinner shared with her parents. She inclined her head, a silent agreement.

The dining room was a stark contrast to his usual haunts. The air was thick with a different kind of weight, a quiet solemnity that his usual bluster could not penetrate.

He tried, with gestures and expressions, to bridge the gap, to charm, to impress. His attempts landed with a dull thud.

His expansive gestures, his knowing smiles, his carefully cultivated aura of celebrity bounced off the quiet disapproval emanating from her parents. Their expressions remained unreadable, their silence a more potent weapon than any spoken word.

He felt exposed, his usual armor of wit and charm useless. The minister's gaze, steady and unwavering, communicated a clear message without a single sound.

The air tightened, the silence growing heavy, suffocating. Finally, a subtle shift in the minister's posture, a tightening of the jaw. A silent dismissal.

He stood on the doorstep, the cool night air a relief against his flushed face. The door closed with a soft click, a final punctuation mark to the disastrous evening.

He was about to turn, to retreat back to his familiar world, when a soft sound, a rustle of fabric, reached him. He turned.