A young Jesus appeared to the boy twice: once draped in ethereal green, shimmering with the promise of renewal, and once in a robe of deepest red, hinting at sacrifice and divine love. Both times, He showed the boy fleeting, almost subliminal glimpses of something more, something vast and ancient, but the most significant visitation happened one quiet afternoon at his grandparents' house. There, amidst the scent of aged wood and forgotten hymns, the young Jesus, His eyes holding an infinite compassion, told him simply, "I am always with you." The words weren't a promise, but a quiet, irrefutable truth that settled deep within his soul, a constant, gentle hum beneath the surface of his awareness.
Around that same time, a black book, ancient and devoid of any discernible title, began to haunt his dreams, floating before him night after night, its unseen pages whispering his name. The summons was undeniable, a subtle but insistent pull. Finally, in a dream infused with an almost tangible curiosity, he reached out and took it. But when he opened the book, its covers creaking like old bones, he found the pages entirely empty, pristine and blank, as if waiting to be filled. Disappointment, sharp and sudden, pricked at him, and he lost interest. The moment he turned away, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips, the book shimmered and vanished, leaving no trace.
Soon after, his parents, their faces alight with a forced enthusiasm, announced they were moving. While his parents were excited about the fresh start and the proximity to family, he was not. He harbored a deep dislike for the relatives living in that state; they were boisterous, opinionated, often domineering, brimming with a pride that bordered on arrogance, and quick with sharp, insulting remarks disguised as humor. Having not been raised in such a toxic environment, surrounded by genuine warmth and quiet respect, he felt an immediate, heavy discomfort, a suffocating weight that pressed in on him the moment they crossed the state line. He knew, with a child’s prescience, that this new place would be a crucible.
Years passed, and though he grew older, the nightmares never truly left him. They evolved, shifting from the general dread of his early childhood to a more specific, terrifying image. The dream was always the same: a molting black creature, its skin peeling away to reveal something even darker beneath, constantly reaching out with long, gnarled limbs, desperate to touch him, its eyes two burning embers of pure malice. He would wake, drenched in sweat, the feeling of its almost-touch lingering on his skin.
In his new school, to his surprise, he found he wasn't bullied like most transfer students. His quiet intensity, combined with an undeniable presence, seemed to deter them. He was smart, excelling effortlessly in his classes, athletic, a natural on the basketball court, and exceptionally attractive—standing 5'11" with a well-toned build that spoke of dedication and discipline. Since he had transferred only three months before graduation, he made few close friends, his reserved nature and the fleeting time not allowing for deep connections, but he excelled regardless, leaving an indelible mark.
He moved on to university, earning a scholarship for his academic prowess and joining the football team, where his strategic mind and fierce dedication made him an invaluable player. He graduated with flying colors, his name frequently appearing on the dean's list, and passed his board exams with a distinction that turned heads. His reputation, forged in diligent study and an unwavering focus, preceded him. He was quickly scouted by the CEO of one of the largest, most prestigious companies in the state, a man known for his astute business sense and his uncompromising standards. The CEO, recognizing a kindred spirit, appointed him as the Head of Auditing, a position usually reserved for those with decades of experience. Though the job was high-pressure, demanding long hours and unwavering precision, he relished the challenge, thriving in the cutthroat environment. He often spent his downtime in the company’s private gym on the 8th floor, a sleek, modern space overlooking the bustling city, where he pushed his body to its limits, finding a strange kind of release in the physical exertion.
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By the age of 25, he had not only mastered his role but had established himself as a formidable presence, a "terror boss" in the corporate world. He held his staff to impossibly high standards, his gaze missing nothing, his critiques sharp and unyielding, and had no patience for those who didn't perform at their peak. He expected excellence, and he got it, often through sheer intimidation. In stark contrast, the CEO doted on him, appreciating his strict attitude and his ruthless efficiency, especially towards employees who slacked off, seeing him as a valuable asset in maintaining the company's rigorous standards.
One afternoon, the sterile quiet of his office was broken by a polite but firm knock at his door. His best friend, Eric, a project manager in a different division, walked in, a casual grin on his face.
"Hey, what's up?" Eric asked, strolling toward the desk, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. "It’s Ash Wednesday, you know. We should totally go to church after work so your 'terrifying boss' presence can be washed away, at least for a little while." Eric gestured dramatically, a playful jab at his friend's reputation.
He stopped reading the dense reports on his desk, his pen hovering mid-air, then slowly, deliberately, put it down. He looked at Eric, a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his lips. "Funny," he said dryly, his voice lacking the usual bite, a subtle warmth reserved only for Eric. He leaned back in his executive chair, staring out the vast glass wall at the sprawling city skyline, its myriad lights just beginning to twinkle as dusk approached. "Actually, I think you're right. I haven't been to church in a while because I've been so busy, chasing deadlines and crushing souls, you know." He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Yeah, we should go." The words felt foreign on his tongue, yet also strangely right.
Eric walked over to the side counter, where a discreet bar was hidden, and poured two generous glasses of amber liquid, the clink of ice cubes echoing softly in the plush office. He handed one, a snifter of fine brandy, to his friend.
He looked at the glass, then at Eric, a genuine smile now touching his eyes. "You really amaze me, you know that?"
"I know. That's why we're best friends," Eric smirked, taking a sip from his own glass. "No other friend would ask you to attend Mass and then immediately ply you with spirits afterwards. It's a delicate balance."
He looked down, swirling the rich, amber liquid in his glass, the scent of oak and aged fruit rising. "You know, with the new fiscal year coming up, I think we should also pay a visit to the construction site downtown, check the progress on the..."
Before he could finish his thought, Eric dashed toward the door, his eyes wide with mock horror. As a project manager, already burdened with the day's endless demands, the mere mention of more work was enough to send him fleeing. "Church later! No business talk! My brain is officially off-duty!"
"Hey!" he called out, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice, but Eric was already gone, his laughter echoing down the hallway. He shook his head with a small smile, took a slow, savoring sip of his brandy, the warmth spreading through him, and returned to his reports, a flicker of something new, something less rigid, now present in his gaze.
