The Following Morning – 6C Operations Hub, East Lansing:

  Sara walks through the intelligence wing in a sleek bck uniform. The guards and analysts nod, eyes downcast. Everyone here knows her rank.

  She enters a secure room, nods at the surveilnce tech.

  Sara:

  "Pull up Eastern Market. Gospel pantry sector. Focus on Sunday traffic patterns. Drones. Civilian cams. Anything thermal."

  Within seconds, grids and heat maps blossom across the screens. Tiny movements. Supply runs. A known deacon's car.

  Tech:

  "You think it's a church front?"

  Sara (coldly):

  "I think it's a seedbed for sedition. But I don’t want it uprooted—I want it quieted."

  She marks the points of entry. Supply trucks. Fire exits. A celr hatch, likely the girls’ route.

  Sara:

  "No raids. No arrests. I want leverage, not headlines."

  Tech:

  "Bckmail op?"

  ***

  Eastern Market District – Sunday Morning

  The air is thick with barbecue smoke, church choirs in the distance, and the muted hum of old gospel vinyl from nearby food trucks. Sara walks alone, cloaked in an elegant gray coat that hides her station but not her poise. No entourage. Just her presence, commanding.

  She finds the old gospel distribution center nestled between two abandoned warehouses—marked with a fading sign: “Sunday Pantry – All Are Fed.”

  Inside, a few women move boxes quietly. One of them spots her. Stops. Runs to the back.

  Moments ter, Pastor Renee Lockett emerges.

  He's tall, te 60s, commanding but weary. His clerical colr is stained, but his spine is straight. He eyes her like a shepherd spotting a wolf wearing perfume.

  Pastor Renee:

  "You've got no business here, Miss Croft."

  Sara (smiling faintly):

  "That's not what the surveilnce says. I'm told I’ve got quite a bit of business here."

  He doesn’t flinch.

  Pastor Renee:

  "You've got no business here, Miss Croft."

  Sara (smiling faintly):

  "That's not what the surveilnce says. I'm told I’ve got quite a bit of business here."

  He doesn’t flinch.

  Pastor Renee:

  "That was surveilnce, then? You could’ve sent an army. You didn’t. Why?"

  Sara:

  "Because I’m not here to destroy your house. I’m here to talk about who’s inside it."

  He crosses his arms.

  Pastor Renee:

  "You came for Shay."

  Sara:

  "I came because I don’t want a martyr in Detroit. I want a negotiation."

  A beat. She steps closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel like a confession.

  Sara:

  "You’re the st pulpit standing in this city. The st Trinitarian in the open. That makes you precious to some, dangerous to others. I want you to stay exactly where you are."

  Pastor Renee (narrowing eyes):

  "Then why pressure my pantry? Why grab one of my supply trucks?"

  Pastor Renee (narrowing eyes):

  "Then why pressure my pantry? Why grab one of my supply trucks?"

  Sara:

  "To remind you that your holiness exists on borrowed time. And I’m the one paying the interest."

  He exhales, sharp.

  Pastor Renee:

  "So what are you offering?"

  Sara pulls a folded paper from her coat and hands it to him. A permit—official, sealed, limited—allowing Sunday pantry operations to continue under "conditional humanitarian exemption."

  Sara:

  "Your girls stay fed. Your sermons stay online. No drones. No knock raids. No burnings."

  Pastor Renee (reading):

  "And in return?"

  She looks him dead in the eye.

  Sara:

  "You stop hiding fugitives who pn attacks. You report external donors who push anti-6C agitation. And you keep your gospel ‘spiritual,’ not political. No Pauline epistles. No anti-polygamy verses. Not out loud."

  He tosses the paper back at her feet.

  Pastor Renee:

  "You want me to preach a neutered gospel."

  Sara:

  "I want you to live long enough to preach anything at all."

  Silence. Wind passes through the open warehouse door.

  Sara (softer):

  "I’m not your enemy, Pastor. I grew up under fists. Men who used God as a hammer. You and I both know what that smells like."

  He studies her. Something in his gre shifts—not into trust, but into recognition.

  Pastor Renee:

  "And Shay?"

  Sara:

  "Safe. Fed. Free. She gave me a name. Not because I forced her. Because she’s tired of seeing good men like you walk blind into fire."

  Renee exhales again. This time it sounds more like surrender than resistance.

  Pastor Renee:

  "I’ll think about your offer."

  Sara (turning to go):

  "You’ve got three days. After that, others less diplomatic than me will come. They won’t be offering permits."

  She pauses at the threshold.

  ***

  Later That Evening – Renee’s Back Office, Sunday Pantry

  The sun has dipped low behind the Detroit skyline, casting orange fire through the stained-gss remnants above the pantry’s old altar. Pastor Renee sits at his desk, staring at Sara Croft’s unsigned exemption form.

  An old cassette pyer hums with a Fred Hammond worship track, barely audible beneath the sound of Renee’s heavy breathing.

  Across from him sits Minister Jada Burns, a fiery young associate pastor in her thirties, eyes sharp with suspicion.

  Across from him sits Minister Jada Burns, a fiery young associate pastor in her thirties, eyes sharp with suspicion.

  Jada:

  "You’re not seriously thinking of signing that, are you?"

  Pastor Renee (quietly):

  "She didn’t come to destroy. That’s what worries me the most."

  Jada:

  "She’s maniputing you. That paper’s soaked in poison. They let you preach a defanged gospel today so they can drag you into their PR circus tomorrow."

  Jada:

  "She’s maniputing you. That paper’s soaked in poison. They let you preach a defanged gospel today so they can drag you into their PR circus tomorrow."

  Renee sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.

  Pastor Renee:

  "You think I don’t know that? But I also know half our pantry girls haven’t eaten two meals in a row this week. I know our st two donors were arrested. I know we lost a 14-year-old to a fake marriage caravan headed to Lansing."

  He sms a fist—lightly—on the desk.

  Pastor Renee (calmer):

  "If I can keep this building standing, I can keep a foothold for truth. Maybe not Paul’s epistles. But Christ’s mercy? That doesn’t need paperwork."

  Jada leans forward, voice firm.

  Jada:

  "And what about the next line in their contract? 'No out-loud anti-polygamy verses'? Are we gonna preach Matthew 19 in a whisper now? Are we gonna baptize with muzzles on?"

  Pastor Renee (quiet):

  "Sometimes survival is resistance. If we disappear completely, we become a rumor. And you can’t fight heresy with a ghost."

  He folds the form in half, unreadable. Then finally:

  Pastor Renee:

  "I’ll sign it. But I’ll write my own cuse."the

  Jada (suspicious):

  "What cuse?"

  Pastor Renee:

  "'This house shall remain a sanctuary for all who seek grace—no matter what fg flies outside.'"

  He stands. The decision has weathered him. But it's his.

  Pastor Renee:

  "Let the wolves watch the door. We’ll keep the table set for prodigals."

  Midnight – Minister Jada Burns’ Apartment, Highnd Park

  Jada’s apartment is quiet, dimly lit by a single mp near her bookshelf—stacked with theology, resistance pamphlets, and old spiral sermon notes. She's barefoot, sipping bitter bck tea, still tense from the argument with Pastor Renee.

  A knock at the door—measured. Intentional.

  She opens it cautiously.

  And freezes.

  Sara Croft, poised in a cream coat. Beside her, in quiet command: Hezri Al-Mansur, the founder of the 6 Commandments himself—tall, calm, expression unreadable.

  Jada (stiff):

  "This isn’t your city."

  Sara (smiling):

  "It will be."

  They walk in without invitation.

  Jada steps back, heart pounding. Her eyes dart to her nightstand drawer—but Hezri notices. Simply raises a finger, as if to say don’t. Then he sets a leather envelope on her bed. She opens it: 20,000 in fresh bills.

  Hezri (voice low):

  "I don’t need to destroy Renee’s sanctuary. I only need to know when it stops being holy."

  Sara:

  "You’re smart. You know it’s falling apart. You know his doctrine is dying. All we’re asking—"

  Hezri (cutting in):

  "—is that you stand where the future is being written."

  Jada:

  "Why me?"

  Sara:

  "Because you’re the only one in that church who still believes it could be something more. And you hate being silenced. We heard it in your voice."

  Jada’s hands tighten. She looks between them. The envelope. The weight of history. Her own shadow flickers against the cross on the wall behind her.

  Then Sara steps closer.

  Jada (soft, almost broken):

  "...I’m not doing this for the money."

  Hezri (gently):

  "Good. Then we’ll both get what we came for."

  She doesn’t resist as they move toward her.

  The night passes like a storm without lightning. No love. Just alignment.

  ***

  Morning – Jada’s Apartment, Alone

  Jada sits on the edge of her bed, showered, dressed, the envelope still untouched on the dresser. Her phone buzzes with a single message from Sara:

  “Welcome. Now we begin.”

  Jada looks out the window toward the sanctuary a few blocks away—her second home, now her mission.

  Her lips press into a ft line.

  Jada (to herself):

  "Forgive me, Lord. I’m going in."

  Day Two – Private Estate in Grosse Pointe

  Jada awoke not to guilt—but to crity.

  The sheets were cool, the room nearly silent save for a soft jazz loop pying from Sara’s vintage speaker. Light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a soft halo over the hardwood floors. Hezri was already gone. Sara sat on the chaise, barefoot, coffee in hand, watching l.

  Sara (quietly):

  "You’re stronger than you know, Jada. That’s why we keep coming back to you." Theocracy

  Jada pulled the sheets tighter, unsure whether the warmth she felt was comfort or something more dangerous. She didn't speak—just watched Sara sip.

  The second night had been different. Less transactional. More... devotional. Hezri, for all his theological steel, had touched her like a man writing scripture on skin. Sara had held her afterward. No judgment. No scripture. Just presence.

  ***

  Later – Estate Library

  Jada stood in the massive room, scanning shelves filled with banned books, old Qur’ans, redacted Bibles, manifestos from fringe prophets now praised in the 6C network. She ran her hand along the spines.

  Hezri (entering):

  "You’re thinking about him—Renee."

  Jada (quiet):

  "I’m thinking about what he would say if he saw me here."

  Hezri walked to her side, hands behind his back like a statesman.

  Hezri:

  "He would say you’re compromised. That your body betrayed your faith. That any tears you shed now don’t belong to God."

  A beat.

  Hezri (softer):

  "But he’s wrong. You’ve woken up. You’re seeing what power feels like when it doesn’t ask you to bow, but to build."

  Jada turned to face him, something shaking in her chest she couldn’t yet name.

  Jada:

  "And what do you want me to build?"

  He leaned close, his voice like a prayer ced with fire.

  Hezri:

  "A new sanctuary. One without shame. Without chains. Where women like you don’t apologize for standing at the altar."

  She stared at him. Swallowed.

  She remembered Renee’s sermons. The way his voice cracked when talking about truth. But also how it trembled when silencing her questions about Deborah. About Mary Magdalene. About the “silent woman” verses.

  Now, her heart trembled for different reasons.