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The white fire flickered. The man’s hand dropped an inch.
“Then why do you keep coming back?” Anders asked. His hands were shaking, but his mind was suddenly clear—not the Fury’s clarity, but something else. Something harder. “If you’re justice without mercy, why do you need witnesses? Why do you need us to see ? A fire doesn’t care if anyone watches it burn.”
Anders kept his hand where it was. “Neither do I,” he said. “But maybe that’s the point.” In the morning, the man in the charcoal suit was gone. The scorch mark on the chapel floor remained. But on the wall beneath Luke 12:49, in letters that looked like they’d been written by a trembling hand, was a new verse: The Divine Fury
“You’ve been lying to them,” the man said. His voice wasn’t loud. It resonated , as if it came from the floor and the ceiling simultaneously. “About mercy. About forgiveness. You tell them God is love, but you forgot the other part.”
Anders took a step forward. “You’re not the reckoning. You’re the wound. And wounds don’t heal by cutting deeper.” The white fire flickered
Anders pocketed his phone. He thought about the man’s face, the cracks of brass light, the way his voice had broken. He thought about the seven-year-old boy under the pew, terrified and guilty, who had grown into a man who debunked miracles because he couldn’t bear to believe in them.
The man laughed. It was a terrible sound, like grinding stones. “No. I’m the part God left out. The part that actually does something.” His hands were shaking, but his mind was
Anders almost deleted it. He got dozens of crank emails a day. But something made him open it. The attachment was a video, shot on a phone, shaky and poorly lit.