Back at the church, the scent of iron and damp stone clung to the old stone walls.
Carlos adjusted the stiff collar of his uniform, his young fingers fumbling more than usual. The polished buttons glinted under the flickering candlelight, but his hands—steady in battle—betrayed a small tremor.
"Hold still," Sophie said, smoothing a wrinkle over his shoulder with slow, deliberate strokes. Her touch was light, almost reverent. "You look fine."
He shifted under her hands, jaw clenching. "I feel like hell."
"You're still their leader," she reminded him, her voice soft but firm. "And they need to hear from you. Nothing's changed. The plan's the same, right?"
Carlos huffed a breath through his nose, his gaze dropping to the cracked wood floor between his boots. She was right. Nothing's changed.
But it had. She wasn't in the room with them—no, that girl was inching closer to a god by the second.
Marisol's words gnawed at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn't dig out.
Sophie's hands smoothed the front of his jacket one last time. She met his eyes, the faintest glint of red flashing deep in her pupils. "Go remind them why they believe in you."
Carlos nodded once—sharp, mechanical.
Carlos stood just outside the heavy church doors, one hand resting lightly on the rusted handle.
He was about to push it open when he heard them.
The low murmur of voices seeped through the crack beneath the door—restless, brittle, worn thin by doubt.
"How much longer do we have to wait here?" an older gruff man muttered, his voice sharp with fear. "He Said the goddess would be ours by now."
Another scoffed. "All we are at this point are lambs to the slaughter." Maybe that's all we were ever meant to be without Mephisto."
Carlos leaned closer, the cool stone wall pressing against his shoulder.
"If the girl doesn't awaken soon," a man said bitterly, "I'm gone. I didn't sign up to die in a church for a god who doesn't answer."
The words hit harder than any weapon ever had.
Another voice—a rasping whisper—followed:
"And if Mephisto finds out where we are and we doubted him? We'll burn for it."
A tense silence hung beyond the doors, thick and sour.
Someone—young, shaking—breathed, "Maybe... but the leader found a way to shield us from him. We are safe as long as Mephisto can't reach into our minds."
The final words settled like ash on Carlos's skin.
For a long moment, he just stood there.
Listening.
Feeling the weight of their fear, their doubt, their lack of faith sink into his bones.
He reached for the door again.
Squaring his shoulders, he pushed open the heavy door leading to the main chapel.
The room beyond was packed tight with his familia, the air thick with sweat and something heavier—hope, fear, desperation. They filled the old pews, spilled into the aisles, sardined together, every face turned toward the pulpit.
For a moment, Carlos stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of their gazes.
Then he stepped forward.
The clatter of his boots against the stone floor echoed like gunfire. He climbed the steps to the pulpit, adjusted the microphone wired into the battered podium, and forced a slow, easy smile onto his face.
"My brothers," he began, his voice ringing clear across the crowded room, "my sisters."
The murmurs died down. Silence fell like a held breath.
"I stand before you today not in defeat—" Carlos's voice deepened, gained rhythm, "—but in victory."
A wave of tension broke across the crowd. Heads lifted. Eyes brightened.
"In the heart of our trap, our so-called creator was dealt a heavy blow. His illusions were no match for my might. Even his servants could not stop us from taking our true prize."
The room stirred with energy, whispers rising.
Carlos spread his arms wide. "And now our goddess—our true guide to the promised land—has seen us. She has chosen us to bring us along her path to our true home."
A roar erupted from the pews—cheers, clapping, fists pumping the air. The ground beneath Carlos seemed to tremble with the force of their glee.
The woman in the bus driver uniform, standing near the aisle, raised her hand hesitantly.
Carlos's smile never faltered.
"Yes, sister?"
She licked her lips, voice cracking slightly. "The... the team we sent to the apartment. Where are they? Shouldn't they have returned with you?"
The air grew thick.
The others shifted, nervous.
Carlos's grin widened—calm, deadly.
"They fulfilled their purpose," he said smoothly. "They gave everything to ensure our future. They died willingly, joyfully, knowing their sacrifice paved the way for the rest of us."
A heavy hush fell over the pews.
"They chose," Carlos continued, voice low and reverent, "To become the first true martyrs of our new world."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then someone began clapping—hesitant at first, then stronger.
Within seconds, the room roared again—desperation, guilt, and blind faith crashing together like a wave.
He let it roll for a few precious seconds—then lifted a single hand.
The room quieted at once.
He smiled again, sharper this time. "But our journey isn't over. Not yet."
The room leaned in.
"Our home—the Otherworld—awaits us. And soon, with her help, the boundaries will break, but we must stay vigilant for our creator is still lurking in the shadows. "But rest assured, my friends—we will return to where we truly belong."
A low hum of excitement rippled through the crowd.
Then a voice—a young man—cut through the noise.
Carlos's eyes locked onto him instantly.
An Enforcer stepped forward, his school uniform crisp, his posture rigid but his voice shaking slightly. "And... if our creator tries to stop us?"
The room held its breath.
Carlos chuckled—a low, rich sound that made the candles seem to flicker.
He stepped down from the pulpit, boots ringing against stone, and walked slowly toward him.
When he stopped a few feet away, he tilted his head, a grin slicing across his face—wide, easy, wrong.
"You worry too much," Carlos said, his voice dripping with confidence. "We already have that... taken care of."
The young man swallowed hard but nodded.
Carlos turned back to the crowd, his coat flaring behind him like a shadow.
"And when the time comes," he called, raising a fist into the air, "we will step through that door together."
The Enforcers roared again—louder, hungrier.
Carlos stood among them, smiling wide enough to hurt, the lie smooth and gleaming on his tongue.
And in the faint candlelight, Sophie watched him from the doorway, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
Waiting.