Coffee, Chaos & Cults
POV: Silas | Time: Early Morning to Late Afternoon
Time: 6:45 AM | Silas & Devon's Dorm Room
The smell hit first—sour beer, stale socks, and regret.
Silas rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and shuffled out of his room barefoot. In the living room, Devon was a collapsed heap on the couch. One arm dangled to the floor, and his hoodie was halfway up his stomach, like he'd lost a fight with it sometime during the night. Three empty bottles lay tipped beneath him like downed comrades. A fourth rested on his chest like a trophy.
Silas sighed. "Jesus, man. How are you not dead?"
He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
Channel 9 News. Reruns of last night's chaos.
"We're bringing you an exclusive follow-up on the shocking developments from Detroit's industrial zone. Late last night, police officers locked down what appears to be a major ritual site involving a fringe cult. Sources confirm more than seventy individuals were apprehended at the scene—many found severely injured or unconscious."
"Authorities credit the anonymous tip-off to an unidentified caller. One witness described the scene as, quote, 'a massacre without a single bullet fired.' The Detroit PD declined to comment. However, internal sources suggest this may be the work of the same vigilante involved in previous disruptions of similar activity…"
Silas muted the TV, letting the silence settle in the room like dust.
Devon snored.
Time: 9:30 AM | Midtown, Wayne State Campus
"You look like hell," Amy said, as Silas handed her a coffee.
He gave a tired smirk. "That's because hell is cheaper than therapy."
They wandered the campus, past ivy-lined stone buildings and down tree-lined walkways bathed in early morning light. The coffee warmed his hands, but it was her presence that relaxed him. For once, the shadows in his head didn't feel quite so loud.
"Devon alive?" she asked.
"Barely. Pretty sure he has a hangover the size of Ohio."
She laughed, brushing her hair back. "And here I was hoping to drag him to brunch. Guess you'll have to suffer my company solo."
"Suffering's relative," he said.
They ended up at a small outdoor café just off-campus, splitting a plate of pancakes while birds chirped and students bustled past. She told him about a group project from hell. He told her about a philosophy professor who somehow managed to be both boring and aggressive.
At the fountain plaza, she dipped her fingers into the water. "Think we'll make it?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Make it?"
"Yeah… all of it. Life. Graduation. The world not imploding."
He took a slow sip. "No clue. But for now? Feels like we're doing okay."
Time: 12:48 PM | Dorm Room
Silas returned to find Devon still passed out—except now with a blanket halfway over his face and one sock missing. A masterpiece of chaos.
Silas stepped over the mess and flopped onto the couch, pulling the burner phone from under a stack of old textbooks. He typed:
Silas:
So… was my help necessary?
He stared at the screen for a second, wondering if she'd even reply.
Then:
Whitlock:
Was I supposed to thank you for gift-wrapping seventy cult freaks and dumping them on my precinct steps without warning?
Silas:
They're off the street, aren't they?
Whitlock:
You're lucky I hate paperwork more than vigilantes. Your chaos gave me a headache—and a win. Don't make it a habit.
Silas:
Two down. One to go. Father Grimm.
Whitlock:
And you think you can stop him by yourself?
Silas:
No. That's why I texted you. I'll need time to finish this right. When I make my move, I'll let you know. Until then, stay sharp.
Whitlock:
Stay alive. That's the only favor I'm asking.
Silas smiled. That was the closest thing to concern he'd heard from her.
POV: Third Person | Location: Inner Sanctum – Hidden Underground Chapel
The air smelled like candles, rusted iron, and dried blood. A fog of incense curled upward from braziers shaped like skeletal hands.
At the far end of the subterranean chapel, a crimson-robed woman knelt. Her hood was drawn back, revealing a pale face carved with tattoos—symbols of pain, of binding, of devotion. The last Templar.
Father Grimm stood beneath the carved mural of the Blind God—a towering wall relief depicting a featureless humanoid, blindfolded and limbless, its ribs open like a cage.
She bowed her head. "Two of our own have fallen," she said, voice calm. "Gideon and Baruch are either dead or in custody. Their lieutenants are gone. Our cells are exposed. Police are intercepting our supply lines. This... 'Sentinel' is making it impossible to operate in the open."
Grimm's eye twitched.
"Selica..." he said, voice dragging like a blade across stone.
She looked up.
"This city… gorges itself on sin. It feasts on suffering. And now this heretic has the gall to cripple our sacred work?"
He turned, walking the length of the chapel. His robes dragged through candlewax and bone dust.
"Do you hear them? Our god—the god—demands cleansing. Demands sacrifice. And we have given it. Month after month. Child after child. Blood after blood. And still... this insect defies us?"
Selica remained silent.
"We will no longer wait. No more whispers. No more darkness. I want every follower gathered. I don't care their age, their fear, their strength. If they believe, they serve. The next time he appears…"
He reached up, touching the eye socket of the Blind God's effigy with blood-stained fingers.
"We end him."