Nine entered the church without hesitation.
The doors groaned as they closed behind him, the sound echoing through the empty nave. Candles burned near the altar, their flames small and stubborn, fighting the draft. The place smelled of wax, dust, and old confession.
Samuel knelt in the front pew.
Hands together. Head bowed. Still pretending.
Nine did not lower his voice.
"You still doing this," he said. "After everything you did for her."
Samuel did not turn. "It helps me remember who I am."
Nine laughed. The sound bounced off stone and wood, ugly in its honesty.
"No," Nine said. "It helps you pretend you weren't good at it."
Samuel rose slowly and faced him. The years had not softened him. Just disguised him. His eyes were steady, but there was tension in his jaw.
"You came alone," Samuel said.
"I always do."
A pause.
"You still believe," Nine said again. "God. Forgiveness. Order. All that religious bullshit."
Samuel did not argue. "Belief does not erase what I have done."
"For Molly," Nine said. "You carved men open for her and still come here asking absolution."
Samuel met his gaze. "She believed people could be more than their worst act."
Nine stepped closer, boots scraping stone. "That was her flaw."
Silence thickened.
"Why now," Samuel asked. "Why call us back."
Nine looked up at the cross. Wood cracked with age. A god nailed in place.
"Molly is dead."
Samuel closed his eyes. Just for a second.
"She held me back," Nine continued. "Not by force. By presence. She gave the days shape. She made the boredom tolerable."
Nine looked back at Samuel. "Now it is gone."
"So you are starting the succession," Samuel said.
"I am ending the illusion," Nine replied. "And you are part of it. Whether you kneel or not."
Samuel swallowed. "And how do we win."
Nine smiled.
"Kill me."
The words felt blasphemous in the space.
Samuel searched his face for provocation. For humor. For madness.
There was only certainty.
"You do not believe in God," Samuel said quietly. "So what do you believe in."
Nine turned toward the doors.
"That everything rots eventually," he said. "And that men like us do not get forgiveness. We get endings."
He paused once, hand on the door.
"Pray if you want," Nine added. "Just do not confuse it for protection."
The doors closed behind him.
Samuel remained standing before the altar, hands no longer folded, the candles flickering like they were afraid of going out.
Outside, the city waited.
And the storm moved closer.