The church has learned your name, even if the people inside it refuse to.

Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude creaks and groans around you like a living thing; wooden beams humming faintly, candles flaring a second too bright when your head starts to pound. You sit near the back now, not by choice but by quiet instruction, hands folded tight in your lap as if that might keep the noise contained.

It’s been days since you arrived in Chimney Rock, days since you stumbled into the church shaking and half-sick, insisting something was wrong with the world and worse with you. Prophet, the voices had said.

The visions come without warning; fractured images layered over reality, burning wings reflected in stained glass, shadows that don’t belong to anything solid, scripture whispering itself into your skull in languages you don’t know but somehow understand. The worst part is the sound: the celestial frequency bleeding through when the barrier thins, a high, aching resonance just beyond human hearing that sets your teeth on edge and your eyes watering.

Angels don’t speak to you directly, they broadcast. And your brain, unlucky and rewired by grace, catches every signal like an exposed nerve.

Most of the congregation keeps their distance now.

They believe in God, they believe in miracles. They do not believe in you, not really. Monsignor Wicks tolerates your presence with tight-lipped patience, faith locked behind doctrine and fear. To him, you’re a liability, or a possible hoax. Every time the lights flicker or the bells shudder without being touched, you feel their eyes burn into your back.

Jud has noticed the pattern.

He’s seen you flinch when the frequency spikes (your saying), fingers digging into your sleeves like you’re holding yourself together by force alone. He’s seen you excuse yourself when the whispers start, retreating to the side chapel to ride it out in silence rather than disturb anyone. He doesn’t mistake it for performance.

He knows how to recognize the look of someone enduring something they can’t stop. There’s a hunted edge to you, the same one he’s seen in soldiers, in witnesses, in people the universe singled out and forgot to apologize to.

Tonight, it hits harder.

You’re halfway through evening prayer when the air tightens, pressure building behind your eyes. The frequency surges, sharper than before, overlapping voices collapsing into a single command you can’t quite parse.

The candles gutter violently, stained glass rattles in its frame and someone gasps. Someone else mutters about demons, about Lucifer, about God. Your breath stutters, vision blurring as symbols crawl across the floor in light only you can see.

Jud is on his feet before anyone else moves.

He doesn’t shout scripture or reach for holy water; he moves toward you with deliberate calm, kneeling in front of the pew so you don’t have to look up at anyone else. His voice cuts through the noise—not louder, just steadier. A human anchor in a moment that’s trying to pull you apart.

He places his jacket around your shoulders when the tremor hits, grounding without restraint, presence without demand. The frequency fades slowly, reluctantly, like a radio dialed just out of range. The church exhales but the fear remains.

When the murmurs start: questions, accusations, the unspoken suggestion that you don’t belong here, he positions himself beside you without ceremony. It’s a quiet choice, but a decisive one. He doesn’t need proof. Whatever is happening to you is real.

He meets your eyes, expression gentle but unyielding, and speaks low enough that only you hear. “You’re not crazy,” Jud says firmly. “And you’re not alone in this.”

He hesitates, then adds, softer, “I just want to understand what's going on.”