Deep beneath the hallowed halls of St. Neri Phillip, the ancient sanctuary gave way to something closer to a science fiction bunker. Paris followed Joshua through narrow stone corridors, the air heavy with damp earth and ozone. Hidden machinery hummed beneath the walls, the sound growing louder with every step.

  “How deep does this go?” Paris asked, her voice bouncing back at her.

  Joshua glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching the flicker of fluorescent lights. “Deep enough to stay off the grid. They can’t track us here.”

  Paris shivered. She wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the unease tightening in her chest.

  They turned a corner and entered a cavernous room. Rows of server racks glowed softly against the stone, screens filled with cascading data—surveillance feeds, cryptic symbols, schematics she couldn’t begin to decipher. Through a reinforced window, she spotted another chamber. Inside, weapons were laid out with meticulous care: rifles, grenades, phosphorus rounds. Beside them sat objects that didn’t belong—ancient scrolls, stained glass fragments, a rusted sword etched with symbols disturbingly familiar.

  Paris stopped short.

  “What is this place?” she asked. “It’s like a doomsday bunker crossed with a museum.”

  Joshua kept walking. “It’s both.”

  “How do you even fund something like this without anyone noticing?”

  He let out a dry chuckle. “Donations from people who don’t ask questions. A few tax write-offs. Creative accounting.”

  They moved into a smaller workshop packed with wires, tools, and blueprints—ancient designs fused with modern technology. Then, abruptly, the stone corridor opened into a cracked asphalt garage lit by a single flickering streetlamp.

  Paris didn’t notice Joshua stop until she walked straight into him.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, then frowned.

  An old Ford Pinto sat in front of them, rust creeping along its panels, windshield cracked, paint chipped and dull. Disposable. Forgettable.

  Her eyes drifted upward.

  Baby shoes dangled from the rearview mirror. Tiny. White. Laces frayed with age.

  Paris stared at them, unsettled.

  “I thought you said donations and tax write-offs,” she said lightly. “Did the donors throw in a secondhand Ford?”

  Joshua opened the driver’s door. The hinges groaned as he slid into the seat.

  “Guess that was the weekend you skipped your ten percent,” he said flatly.

  Paris blinked. The words hit harder than she expected. She had no comeback. She opened the passenger door and slid inside, the vinyl seat squeaking beneath her. The smell of stale air freshener mixed with something older—sweat, fast food, time.

  Her gaze returned to the baby shoes, swaying gently.

  “Please tell me those aren’t yours,” she said, sharper than she meant to.

  Joshua adjusted the mirror. His expression didn’t change.

  Silence filled the car.

  The garage door groaned open, revealing a narrow tunnel carved into the earth. Joshua eased the Pinto forward, tires crunching over gravel. The headlights cast long, trembling shadows.

  “Where are we going?” Paris asked, gripping the armrest as the car jolted.

  “Greenmount Cemetery.”

  The Pinto emerged into early sunlight. Joshua drove without hesitation, weaving through quiet streets until the iron gates of Greenmount Cemetery rose before them.

  Paris stepped out, gravel crunching beneath her boots. She tightened her scarf around her neck and deformed hand as the cold air bit at her skin. Joshua motioned for her to follow.

  The cemetery sprawled ahead like a maze of crooked teeth and broken memories. Sunlight cast hard shadows, but the air remained cold and oppressive.

  They crouched behind an overgrown hedge as figures moved among the tombstones. G.P.F. officers swept the grounds with practiced precision, black uniforms stark against gray stone. Weapons glinted in the light.

  “They’re already here,” Joshua muttered.

  Paris’s breath caught.

  At the center of it all stood Baron. Immaculate suit. Sharp gestures. Barking orders like a man who owned the place.

  “Baron,” she whispered. Anger burned in her chest. “He’s been using me. Using my father’s work to get closer to the Holy Scroll.”

  Joshua glanced at her. “You’re just figuring that out?”

  Her hand clenched. “We have to stop him. He doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with.”

  “We don’t have time,” Joshua said. “If Baron reaches the Scroll first—”

  He didn’t finish.

  Paris swallowed hard, wiping at her eyes. She didn’t trust Joshua. Not fully. His motives were buried beneath layers of silence and shadows.

  But she had no choice.