SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT

  The room smelled of decay, its air heavy with years gone by. Antique furniture stood like silent witnesses to a life long past.

  Thick tubes ran from an oxygen tank to an old woman slumped in a wheelchair, her paper-thin skin stretched over fragile bones. Her body trembled as she fought to keep her head upright. Watery eyes stared at the television, its flickering images a weak distraction from the oppressive stillness. The oxygen concentrator hummed, punctuated by the occasional beep of a nearby monitor.

  The numbers told a grim story—one sixty over ninety, a heart rate nearing one twenty. Each breath was labored, uneven. She looked like someone who had survived too many wars, internal and otherwise, and was finally ready to lose the last one.

  On the screen, a news reporter droned on.

  “Authorities are still baffled by the elusive killer known only as ‘The Ordained,’ suspected in numerous murders across Maryland. Witnesses describe him as clad in black armor, wearing a clergy collar…”

  At the corner desk, the nurse barely glanced up. She scribbled in a logbook, exhaustion dragging her pen across the page. She reached for the remote, raised the volume, then left the room without a second thought.

  Joshua stepped inside.

  At thirty-two, his presence was cold and deliberate. The soft creak of floorboards made the old woman glance up. Her eyes widened as she locked onto him—black armor, clergy collar, the dark gleam of a sword catching the television’s light. He stood like a shadow given form.

  Her trembling hand lifted, reaching for something unseen. She met his gaze without fear. Only resignation.

  On the television, the reporter continued.

  “—has eluded capture for years…”

  Joshua’s eyes flicked to the screen. His face appeared there, grainy and ominous. THE ORDAINED flashed beneath it.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Something in him cracked. His grip on the sword faltered.

  The old woman smiled faintly. “You’re tired,” she whispered. “Like me.”

  Joshua raised the blade, jaw clenched tight.

  “Father, forgive me…” His voice barely carried.

  The sword hovered inches above her neck. His arm trembled.

  She didn’t flinch.

  Instead, she reached up and brushed her fingers against the cold steel. Her touch was gentle. Unafraid.

  Behind him, a gasp.

  “Oh my God,” the nurse whispered. “It’s him.”

  Joshua’s head snapped toward her. His expression hardened. He stepped backward into the shadows, lowering the blade.

  In a blink, he was gone.

  The vacant lot stretched beneath a cold, moonlit sky.

  Joshua dropped to his knees in the dirt, the silence crushing. He tilted his head back, staring at the stars, defiance and despair warring in his chest.

  “I’ve done everything,” he muttered.

  His hand brushed the glyphic symbol glowing faintly beneath his armor. The birthmark burned, alive with its own will.

  “But I will not do this.”

  He tore the armor away piece by piece, letting the black metal fall into the dirt. His chest heaved as he stood exposed to the cold, heart pounding against the storm inside him.

  St. Neri Phillip Church stood like a sentinel amid the wilderness, its spire piercing the cloud-streaked sky. The grounds were immaculate—manicured hedges, vibrant flowers arranged like a living mosaic. Waterfalls spilled into shimmering pools along winding stone paths, their soft melodies blending with the hum of bees and the rustle of towering oaks.

  The air felt sacred, heavy with prayers whispered across generations. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, scattering gold across cobblestone paths. Beautiful. Serene.

  And quietly watchful.

  The church itself was a monument of stone and ivy, its arched windows catching the light like jewels. Inside waited silence—and secrets.

  The operations room was stark. Monitors lined the walls, surveillance footage flickering across them.

  The Elder stood at the center, age carved deep into his face. Father James hovered nearby, unease etched into every movement.

  On one screen, Joshua’s hesitation played on a loop.

  The Elder’s lip curled. He slammed his fist onto the table, sending papers fluttering.

  “Do you realize what you’ve done?” he growled.

  Joshua stood at the far end of the room, calm, detached. “I did what was right. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  The Elder’s eyes blazed. “You do not decide who lives or dies. You walk the path we laid for you. No more. No less.”

  Father James stepped forward. “Perhaps there’s a reason for his hesitation—”

  “There is no room for hesitation,” the Elder snapped. His gaze bored into Joshua. “He’s a weapon. Not a man.”

  Joshua said nothing.

  Inside, the weight of his choices pressed heavier than ever.