Concrete Eden – The 6C Behavioral Correctional Center, Flint Outskirts.

  Shay’s wrists are cuffed to the interrogation table. The sterile gray room buzzes with artificial light. A single camera watches from the corner, though the 6C guards have been ordered to step out.

  The door opens. In walks Sara Croft—barefoot, veiled in a pale vender abaya with gold-threaded trim. Her presence is eerie yet magnetic. A former abuse survivor turned crusading lieutenant of 6C’s founder, Hezri, she’s now the fifth most senior woman in the theocracy.

  She closes the door behind her. The click echoes like judgment.

  Sara:

  "Shay. I asked for this to be private. No guards. No drones. No edits."

  Shay doesn’t answer. She stares at the woman, unsure whether to speak or brace for indoctrination.

  Sara (softly):

  "I know what it’s like… to belong to a man’s house but not your own body. Hezri pulled me from that wreckage. Now I lead women from darkness—some kicking, some screaming. But always toward light."

  Shay blinks back. Her voice is hoarse.

  Shay:

  "You think this is light?"

  Sara:

  "Tell me your truth. I don’t want the church version. Not the TikTok edit. Not even what the tribunal filed."

  Shay hesitates. Then, like a dam cracking:

  Shay:

  "He was my step-uncle. Mom married him after Dad died. He said it was God’s will. Said he'd 'train me' for holy marriage. I ran when I found out he had three other girls already. I found Rebekah... my girlfriend… and she told me about Greater Grace."

  She breathes out. Sara doesn’t interrupt.

  Shay:

  "They said I was dirty. 'Polyandrous.' They tied me up in that van like a terrorist. I’ve never even been with a guy."

  Sara is quiet. She doesn’t blink. Her body is still, composed, like marble carved in prayer.

  Then she speaks—calm, clear.

  Sara:

  "I believe you."

  Shay looks up, stunned.

  Sara:

  "I read your tribunal report. You’re not a criminal. You’re an inconvenience. And in the 6C system, that’s far more dangerous."

  She walks slowly around the table, her sandals soft against the polished floor.

  Sara:

  "You shouldn’t be in chains. You should be protected. Sheltered from men who call control holiness."

  Shay:

  "Then why am I here?"

  Sara leans against the table edge, her tone shifting from gentle to precise.

  Sara:

  "Because I can’t free you—not legally—unless I cim you."

  Shay:

  "...What?"

  Sara:

  "The Wife Femme Cuse. A woman can take unlimited female partners. As lovers. Spiritual or sexual—it doesn't matter to the doctrine, as long as it's cimed. If I decre you and Rebekah mine, both of you are shielded under my household."

  Shay’s throat tightens.

  Shay:

  "You don’t even know Rebekah."

  Sara:

  "No. But you do. And I want to protect both of you. The w won’t allow me to be your guardian. Only your lover."

  Shay:

  "This is insane."

  Sara doesn’t deny it.

  Sara (quietly):

  "Insane is watching you sent to a correctional mine because of a kiss. Insane is watching girls vanish because no woman stepped in to shelter them with the w’s own weapon."

  She reaches into her robe and sets a signed exemption order on the table.

  Sara:

  "This document clears you and Rebekah—no record, no tribunal. But I have to file it as 'domestic incorporation under the Wife Femme Cuse.' You’ll both be relocated to my estate. You’ll live well. No cages. No colrs. But… you’ll belong to me. At least until the storm passes."

  Shay:

  "You’re trying to help... by owning us?"

  Sara:

  "I’m trying to beat the system with its own rules. I didn’t write this theocracy to be free—I use it to free others when I can."

  She slides the order closer.

  Sara:

  "Say no, and I’ll make sure you’re treated gently. But I won’t be able to protect you again. Say yes... and you walk out of here tomorrow. With Rebekah."

  Shay stares at the paper. Her fingers tremble as they brush the edge.

  ...

  The Lavender Estate – Sara’s Private Residence, Outskirts of Ann Arbor

  Late afternoon. The light is soft, filtered through high, sheer curtains. The home is sprawling but quiet, designed like a monastic retreat for a queen—minimalist, elegant, and strangely intimate.

  Shay walks in, escorted by a silent female aide in silk gray robes. Her clothes are clean now. No more detention garb. Her hair is brushed, her wounds bandaged. But her chest is tight. She doesn’t know what she’s walking into.

  The aide opens a door to a sunlit room. A long window bench, tea set steaming, and there—curled near the window, back to the door—

  Rebekah.

  Shay gasps. The aide steps out and shuts the door quietly.

  Shay:

  "Rebekah…?"

  Rebekah turns slowly. Her eyes are red from crying. But when she sees Shay—alive, upright—she runs.

  They crash into each other, clutching tight. No words. Just breath. Just hands on cheeks, on shoulders, on hair.

  Rebekah (choked):

  "I thought they broke you. I thought—"

  Shay:

  "They almost did. But she stopped them."

  They sit on the bench, fingers intertwined like roots rejoining the same tree.

  Rebekah:

  "Sara came to me. Said she could shield us, but… under the cuse. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know if you were still—"

  Shay (soft):

  "I agreed too. So we could be safe. Together."

  Rebekah:

  "But… are we safe? Or just owned by someone new?"

  Shay hesitates. Then looks around. The room is warm. No locks. No bars. No guards.

  Shay:

  "Maybe both."

  The door opens again. Sara enters—no veil, dressed in deep burgundy silk. Barefoot. Regal. Controlled.

  She says nothing at first. Just watches them.

  Sara:

  "I didn’t do this to trap you. I did it to keep you breathing. But now that you’re here… I won’t lie. I want something in return."

  Rebekah steps in front of Shay instinctively, defiant.

  Rebekah:

  "If you’re going to hurt her, you’ll have to go through me."

  Sara lifts an eyebrow—curious, not offended.

  Sara:

  "No. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m here to offer a choice."

  She walks to the tea set and pours three cups. No rush.

  Sara:

  "You can stay in my house, under my name, with legal immunity. That’s what the Wife Femme Cuse gives you. And if we share beds… it’s not about possession. It’s about protection. Desire can grow. Or not. I won’t force it."

  She walks over and pces a cup in each girl’s hand. Then sits across from them.

  Sara:

  "I’m not your savior. I’m just a woman who knows how to twist a holy lie into a shield."

  A silence.

  Shay:

  "And when it’s over?"

  Sara:

  "Then you’ll be free. Legally untouchable. You’ll leave my house with new names, clean records, and a choice about what kind of life you want next. Not everyone gets that. But I can give it to you."

  Rebekah looks at Shay. Shay nods—barely. They sip the tea.

  And for the first time since the van, since the tribunal, since the lie that beled them dirty, they breathe without fear.

  The Morning After – Sara’s Inner Quarters, Lavender Estate

  The room smells like incense and sandalwood. The silk sheets are tangled. Three bodies, once tense and divided, now lie in a slow-spinning gravity of new intimacy.

  Shay wakes first—her limbs heavy with unfamiliar softness. Rebekah is curled behind her, breathing against her neck. Across the bed, Sara sits upright, already sipping tea from a jade cup, robed again in deep red.

  She doesn’t speak.

  Shay stares at her, the night repying in fragments—hesitation, surrender, the fire of need and fear melting into something far murkier.

  Shay (quiet):

  "So now what are we?"

  Sara doesn’t look surprised.

  Sara:

  "Safe."

  Rebekah stirs, eyes flickering open. She looks at Shay, then Sara, then down at herself—bare under the sheets. The moment floods her face.

  Rebekah (murmuring):

  "I said yes for her. I didn't know if I could actually—"

  Sara (interrupting, calm):

  "You both gave consent. That’s more than most women get in this system. I’ll never take more than you offer."

  Shay sits up, pulling the sheet with her.

  Shay:

  "It didn’t feel like surrender. It felt… like reciming something. But also like... we gave ourselves to you."

  Sara sets her cup down. Her voice is steady.

  Sara:

  "You did. Legally. But emotionally? That part’s up to you."

  She walks to the window, drawing back the curtain. Morning sun floods the room, bathing all three in golden light.

  Sara:

  "You're not prisoners. You’re my partners—by the w’s own nguage. So we will live like partners. Eat, speak, share space. Sometimes bodies. But I won't demand love or submission. Only honesty."

  Rebekah wraps an arm around Shay’s waist and leans into her.

  Rebekah:

  "What if we grow to love you? Would that make us traitors to ourselves?"

  Sara turns back, eyes softer than usual.

  Sara:

  "No. It would make you human. And it would make me responsible."

  She walks over, sits again at the edge of the bed.

  Sara:

  "You’re not my project. You’re my rebellion. This house is illegal love turned legal. We are the loophole."

  Shay looks at Rebekah, then at Sara.

  Shay:

  "And what if someone finds out? That you’re hiding us like this?"

  Sara’s voice sharpens.

  Sara:

  "Then they’ll have to prove I vioted my own cuse. And no man in the 6C is brave enough to interrogate the fifth wife of Hezri about how many lovers she takes into her bed."

  A beat.

  Rebekah (softly):

  "So we’re safe… as long as we keep pretending we’re your lovers?"

  Sara shakes her head.

  Sara:

  "No. You’re safe because you are. But what we become from here… that’s no one’s business but ours."

  ...

  Lavender Estate – Garden Terrace, Late Afternoon

  Shay sits on a bench, watching the koi stir beneath the lily pads. She’s in a flowing robe now—an odd blend of peace and tension woven into her posture. Sara approaches with two cups of jasmine tea and sits beside her.

  Sara:

  "You’re settling in. Slowly."

  Shay:

  "I still don’t know what we are, or what this is. But I’m breathing. That’s more than I had two weeks ago."

  Sara nods, then sets her cup down. Her tone shifts—subtle, but deliberate.

  Sara:

  "There’s something I need to ask you. And I need you to hear it with both your mind… and your loyalty."

  Shay (guarded):

  "To you?"

  Sara:

  "To freedom. And maybe to me, if you think I’ve earned it."

  Shay’s jaw tightens. She knows a setup when she hears one.

  Sara:

  "You were sheltered briefly in one of Pastor Renee Lockett’s safe houses. I’ve seen the file. You know the man. You know the yout."

  Shay:

  "So this is what this is about."

  Sara doesn’t flinch.

  Sara:

  "Renee Lockett is the st independent church leader in Metro Detroit. The only one still preaching Trinitarian doctrine in open defiance of 6C w. That makes him either a martyr… or a liability. I haven’t decided."

  Shay:

  "He took me in when no one else would. He baptized me when everyone else said I was filthy. You think I’m going to sell him out?"

  Sara:

  "No. I think you’re going to tell me the truth about him. Because if I don’t find out his weakness… someone worse will."

  Shay turns away, eyes flicking toward the koi pond. Her silence is a shield.

  Sara leans closer, voice low.

  Sara:

  "You think I enjoy this? That I enjoy turning women into informants or lovers just to keep them alive? I’m pying chess with wolves, Shay. If Lockett falls into the wrong hands—he won’t be arrested. He’ll be made into a symbol. A false apostle. Publicly broken. That would destroy more than just him."

  Shay (quiet):

  "He’s fwed. But he’s kind."

  Sara:

  "Then give me what I need to keep him alive. Tell me who he trusts. Where he moves his girls. Who funds him. Give me pressure points—not for destruction, but for leverage."

  Shay stands, tense.

  Shay:

  "And what do I get?"

  Sara (gently):

  "Protection for him. Discretion. And maybe one day… a way to turn this whole system upside down."

  She pauses.

  Sara:

  "And if that’s not enough… I’ll still keep you and Rebekah safe. Even if you tell me nothing."

  That stings more than manipution. It feels like grace. Weaponized grace.

  Shay breathes out slowly. Her face hardens—not with cruelty, but with decision.

  Shay:

  "Renee uses an old gospel distribution center near Eastern Market. He calls it a 'Sunday pantry.' That’s where the runaway girls get sorted. You didn’t hear it from me. You heard it from a dream."

  Sara (softly):

  "And if I dream again…?"

  Shay:

  "I’ll let you know what I see."

  ***

  That Night – Sara’s Chamber

  The estate is quiet. Outside, the trees rustle under a light spring wind. Inside, the lights are dim—amber, soft, like the space itself is exhaling.

  Shay walks in after her bath, hair damp, robe loose. Sara is already waiting on the bed, not in her usual silk, but in nothing at all—bare, vulnerable, watching her.

  Sara:

  "For the truth. For the risk you took. I don't take that lightly."

  Shay steps forward slowly, her body tense with anticipation—and choice. She could say no. But she doesn’t want to.

  ***

  Shay (soft):

  "I didn’t give it for this."

  Sara:

  "I know. That’s why I want to give this."

  They meet in the middle, bodies finding each other not with hunger this time—but reverence. Sara’s touch is slower, less performative. Shay moves with trust, not just survival.

  Their lips meet—silk on silk.

  Sara presses her forehead to Shay’s as she slips the robe from her shoulders.

  Sara (whispering):

  "You’re not mine. You’re a woman who gave me her fire. I’ll carry it like a torch."

  Their bodies intertwine, moving in sync. No dominance. No scripts. Just shared breath, shared silence, shared trembling.

  Afterward, they lie tangled together. Sara’s hand rests softly on Shay’s hip.

  Sara:

  "I won’t betray your trust. But I will act on it."