It was the 42nd Year of the Purification.
The Sacred Penumbra surrounded us. The light outside was poisoned. It was the fire the
Flesh-Devourers had started when the old world still existed. The Great Gate of
Eden-Subterranean remained sealed. No one in our group had ever seen the “sun.” The
Pastors of the State told us about it. They said it burned the skin and rotted the soul.
Down here, we were protected.
At every meal we repeated:
Doubt is the disease of the spirit.
That morning the Pastors moved quickly through the corridors. Their faces were usually
calm, carved from certainty. Now something strained beneath their composure.
From my hiding place I watched families hand their crying children to the guards. They were
obeying the Sacred Policy of Destiny.
A tight feeling formed inside me.
Curiosity is close to doubt.
I tried to swallow it.
Sister-Magistrate Kelly knelt beside the altar, clutching her rosary so tightly her fingers
trembled.
“Oh, Lord of mercy, what bad thing is happening! The sanctuary has been found! Hide the
people on the earth! They are coming!”
They are coming.
The prophecy had spoken of this.
I slipped away and descended the forbidden steps toward the Steel Gate.
The air grew colder with each step.
I pressed my ear to the metal.
Voices. Not roars. Not growls. Human voices layered over the grinding of machinery. Sharp
metallic clinks. A rhythmic thudding. Orders shouted with precision.
A violent impact shuddered through the gate. Dust rained from the ceiling. I staggered back.
Then came a new sound, s high, mechanical, cutting.
Sparks bled through the seam of the door.
My knees struck the floor.
“The body is weak. The State is strong.”
The mantra steadied me.
Then a voice boomed through the metal, distorted but controlled:
“This is the Metropolitan Police Service. If anyone inside can hear us, remain where you are.
You are not in danger.”
Police.
The word meant nothing to me.
The gate split with a scream of tortured steel. A wedge of white light tore through the
darkness.
It did not flicker like our oil lamps. It was solid. Unwavering. Merciless.
My eyes flooded with tears.
Through the haze I saw figures in helmets and heavy protective gear. Not claws. Not fangs.
Devices. Tools. Oxygen masks.
One of them lowered his visor.
“There’s one alive,” he said, not to me but to someone behind him. “Juvenile male.
Responsive.”
Alive.
They approached slowly.
“It’s okay,” the visorless one said. His voice was gentle, measured. “You’re safe now.”
Safe.
Monsters were not supposed to speak like that.
Strong hands wrapped a thermal blanket around my shoulders. The fabric was rough but
warm. Another figure knelt, shining a small light into my eyes.
“Pupils reactive,” she said. “Severe pallor. Possible dehydration. We need triage.”
The words struck me like coded threats.
De-hy-dra-tion.
Triage.
Their language was clinical. Detached. Alien.
They guided me toward the opening.
There was no fire outside.
It was space.
Endless.
The sky stretched above me — a vast blue wound in the ceiling of existence. At its center
burned the Eye of Wrath.
The sun.
I waited for agony.
None came.
The air was sharp and cold in my lungs. Wind brushed my face like invisible fingers. It did
not scorch me. It did not rot my soul.
Beyond a wide barricade stood vehicles flashing blue lights. Further still, behind layers of
tape and officers, a distant murmur swelled — a crowd held far back. I could see movement.
Raised devices flashing intermittently. But they were contained.
Kept away.
“Careful,” someone said behind me. “We still have an active scene. Leader unaccounted
for.”
Active.
Scene.
Leader.
The words tangled in my mind.
Another officer crouched in front of me and removed his helmet fully. His face was streaked
with ash and sweat. His eyes held something unbearable.
Kindness.
“It’s over,” he said quietly. “You’re free.”
Free.
The word cracked something inside me.
Freedom was exposure. Freedom was disorder. Freedom was the absence of walls.
My breathing quickened.
A medic reached for my wrist. “Pulse is racing.”
“I want to go back,” I whispered.
“It’s okay,” the officer replied. “You don’t have to go back in there.”
Have to?
The open sky tilted above me. There were no ceilings. No stone. No defined edges to the
world.
No containment.
My heart pounded violently against my ribs.
“They lied to you,” someone behind the officer said softly — not accusatory, but factual.
Lied.
The State could not lie.
Could it?
Doubt is the disease of the spirit.
The mantra flared inside me like a warning siren.
A shout erupted near the entrance.
“Multiple casualties inside!”
The officers turned instinctively. The medic beside me looked back toward the gate.
For a single breath, their hands loosened.
The gap opened.
I moved.
The thermal blanket slipped from my shoulders as I twisted free and ran. My legs trembled
but fear carried me. I ducked beneath an outstretched arm and bolted toward the broken
mouth of the bunker.
“Stop! Wait—!”
Boots pounded behind me, but they hesitated at the threshold.
Inside was unstable.
Inside was darkness.
Inside was mine.
I plunged down the steps, past the fractured steel, back into the familiar damp air that
wrapped around me like an embrace.
Silence waited in the hall.
The Pastor-Supreme stood before the altar, composed as ever.
On the stone floor lay our people, arranged gently, as if sleeping. Plastic cups rested beside
relaxed hands.
The sweet scent filled the chamber.
I collapsed before him.
“They are not Flesh-Devourers,” I said, my voice breaking. “They say we are safe. They say
we are free. They say the State—”
He raised his hand.
“I know, my son.”
His voice was calm. Unshaken.
“The enemy does not wound the body. It offers freedom. It loosens certainty. It invites doubt
so the soul may unravel itself.”
He picked up a cup and placed it in my trembling hands.
“The Final Edict. The State prepared for this day. The Hostile Light will never touch you.”
Above us, faintly, I could hear distant shouting. Boots on metal. The rescue teams are
moving deeper.
Time was thinning.
In my mind I saw the sky again, tast and open and without walls.
It terrified me.
To steady myself, I whispered:
“Doubt is the disease of the spirit.”
I drank.
The liquid burned, then bloomed warm inside my chest. The noise of the world softened. The
shouting grew distant. The ceiling felt solid again.
Contained. Safe.
I lowered myself to the floor beside the others.
As my heart slowed, relief washed over me.
I closed my eyes, grateful that I would keep my faith intact—
before the frightening truth could save me.