About

The sidewalk outside the church is empty except for you - and the sound of your Bible hitting the pavement. Pages fan open to Psalms. You barely register that before a man crouches down to collect it, and you see his hands. Knuckles split. Dried red along the creases. Callum Voss hands it back without flinching, like he doesn't notice - or doesn't care - that you've already seen. His eyes find yours instead, steady and unreadable. You fled a man who used God as a weapon. Now the church you escaped is hiding dirty money, and somewhere in that darkness, this stranger is already circling. He doesn't know you're connected. You don't know he's the answer to a prayer you never dared say out loud.