The knock didn't come until just after sunset, just like before. Three taps. But this time, they weren't cautious or hesitant. They were intentional, precise, and rehearsed, like punctuation at the end of a sentence someone had been preparing all day.
I was already near the vestibule, and the axe was in my hand before the echo finished bouncing off the chapel's high stone ribs. Marin appeared from the east wing moments later, silent and alert.
She didn't need to ask; she could feel it in the shift of air, the wrong stillness, and the way the candle flames near the altar flattened as if something had stepped too close to the threshold of sacred ground. We didn't speak. We just moved.
Together. The observation slit revealed a man— or something that looked like one. He stood perfectly centered in the chapel courtyard, arms folded behind his back. He wore a white coat that was neatly trimmed, with no dust, no blood, and no wear.
A single gold pin sat at his collar—unreadable from this distance, but it gleamed whenever the lantern above the entryway flickered. He didn't blink much or shuffle and sway like survivors do. He stood there, as if he had always belonged.
I opened the intercom grill but didn't say a word. The man didn't look directly at it, but he responded as if he knew I was there. "You've been observed," he said. "Evaluated".
I was sent to deliver clarity." His voice was warm, almost professional. It didn't match the world or the way my spine reacted to every syllable. "I don't need clarity," I replied.
The man smiled slightly. "I believe you," he said. "But clarity doesn't require permission." He reached into his coat—slowly, deliberately—and removed a small, sealed envelope.
He placed it gently at the base of the door and then stepped back three paces.
"I'll leave you with this, then. No threats. No weapons. Just an invitation." "Invitation to what?" "To rise."
He turned without waiting for a response and walked back into the street—no escort, no vehicle. He vanished around the corner of the graveyard like a shadow returning to its frame.
I waited ten minutes before opening the outer door, with Marin covering me from the loft. I scanned for wires, traps, or scent trails. There was nothing—just the envelope, placed cleanly on the stone.
I opened it with a scalpel. Inside was a single sheet of paper, written in flawless penmanship with no signature. It simply read: "The weight you carry was meant to be shared.
The power you harbor was never meant to be hidden. You are already part of the shape. Whether you bow or stand, you belong to Pride." Marin read it once and handed it back. She didn't ask if I was scared; she knew better.
Fear wasn't helpful. But understanding? That was terrifying. We didn't sleep that night—not out of panic, but because something had changed. The game wasn't about survival anymore; it was about acknowledgment.
Someone—or something—had recognized us. Day 16: A visitor arrived. He appeared human and spoke calmly, delivering his message without force. He showed no signs of infection and seemed to be in control and confident. He carried no visible weapons and claimed to be a messenger representing "Pride."
The envelope he delivered contained content suggesting ideological recruitment or psychological conditioning. His motives were unclear, but his presence indicated potential surveillance. A security breach was highly probable. We were no longer invisible.
By morning, the envelope had begun to fade, the ink bleeding at the edges, the letters warping slightly. It wasn't due to weather or moisture—just changing, as if the words themselves had only wanted to be read once and nothing more. I burned it in the fire barrel behind the chapel and watched the ash scatter east toward the wind that never smelled quite right.