1

  The taste of cheap whiskey still lingered in Messiah Christel’s mouth.

  Five hours had passed since he left the bar, yet the night was a blur—broken memories stitched together by nausea and regret. He stood alone on a narrow pedestrian bridge wedged between buildings, the morning sun climbing like a ladder through the concrete gaps ahead of him. Its light stabbed at the back of his eyes.

  A sickening pressure crawled up from the base of his neck into the back of his skull. His body felt heavy, unbalanced, as if gravity itself had decided to betray him.

  As his consciousness slowly cleared, he realized he knew this place.

  Messiah glanced at his phone.

  6:00 a.m.

  Too early to go home. Too late to keep wandering.

  Dragging his boots across the asphalt, stumbling even on shallow cracks in the road, he headed for the one place he knew would let him rest.

  The city was already alive. Commuters flooded the streets, voices and footsteps colliding in the rush of morning. When he slipped out from a narrow alley into the main road, the noise hit him like a wave. His pale face and unfocused eyes made passersby glance at him with suspicion—just another drunk beneath the office towers.

  His stomach clenched. The bitter sting crawled up his throat, but he forced it down and pushed forward through the crowd.

  At the edge of the street, a chipped concrete staircase appeared. Messiah climbed it clumsily, almost crawling. He shoved open a heavy wooden door and collapsed onto a couch inside.

  The old church was empty.

  Sunlight poured through stained glass, scattering muted colors across the floor. The air near the high ceiling felt sharp and sacred, untouched by the chaos outside.

  Messiah closed his eyes.

  Twenty minutes passed.

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  The door creaked open.

  A middle-aged man entered, dressed in black, round glasses perched on his nose. A thick, worn Bible rested in his hands.

  Father Max Dinger noticed the young man slumped on the pew and smiled faintly.

  “Drank until morning again?” he asked, his voice closer to a sigh than a reprimand.

  “…Water,” Messiah muttered, weakly raising an arm.

  The priest shook his head, set the Bible down, and disappeared into the back room. He returned a few minutes later with a glass.

  Messiah grabbed it clumsily and swallowed the water in long gulps. His face twisted, then relaxed as he exhaled deeply.

  Father Max adjusted his slipping glasses with a finger.

  “Rest here until you feel better,” he said, placing a hand on Messiah’s shoulder. “You always end up here anyway.”

  With a gentle smile, the priest walked away, his leather shoes echoing softly across the concrete floor.

  “Thanks,” Messiah murmured.

  He stared at the wall clock above the table. Two cherub angels framed the dial.

  6:30 a.m.

  Too early for work. Too unstable to stand.

  Eventually, he noticed the empty glass still in his hand.

  “I’ll return this,” he muttered.

  He stepped into the adjoining house connected to the church. As he reached the entrance, raised voices cut through the hallway.

  “I don’t know why!” a young girl shouted, her voice sharp and trembling.

  “You know exactly why, Maria,” Father Max replied firmly. “This isn’t your place anymore. You need to become independent.”

  “I don’t understand! Why are you trying to throw me out?!”

  Tears pooled in her wide eyes as she glared at him.

  “Maria…”

  The priest gently placed his thick fingers on her head.

  She shook him off and stormed out of the room.

  Messiah stood frozen at the doorway, the empty glass still in his hand.

  And without knowing why, he felt that this moment—

  this small fracture—

  would soon tear his world apart.