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“Generations…” he says at last, the word slipping out like breath. His voice is soft, uncertain. Almost reverent. “It’s… a lot to take in.”

He leans in closer, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to make sense of it. “I mean… this isn’t just a gallery. It’s, it’s like a lineage.” He gestures vaguely at the rows of men, his brow furrowed. “All of them… recorded. Preserved.”

Then he looks at me, slowly, the awe still glinting behind his confusion. “This must’ve meant something. Some kind of tradition, maybe. Like… loyalty. Or purpose. Right?”

There’s a beat of silence.

His lips twitch, uncertain, almost like he’s trying to believe his own explanation. “I don’t know what I’m looking at. But I don’t think it’s what you think it is.”

I whip my head toward him, words rising, but they die in my mouth.

Because behind me, footsteps echo. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful.

My heart stutters. My hand tightens around the flashlight, the beam shaking as I spin around.

Figures emerge from the shadows.

Men.

Their shapes solidifying one by one, stepping into the fractured light. I scan the faces as they step forward. Some I don’t recognize. Some I do.

And then, Detective Davis steps into view. His eyes find mine across the dark with the same quiet and settled stillness he had when he was standing by my fireplace. He looks exactly like he did that night at the cabin. Comfortable. At home.

He wasn’t investigating me.

He was taking inventory.

For them.

The flashlight clatters to the floor, skidding across the concrete, its beam spinning in wild, dizzying arcs. Shadows leap and stretch with each frantic flash. I thrash, twisting hard, but hands clamp down, rough, unyielding. Fingers dig into my arms, wrenching them behind my back. My knees hit the floor hard, a sharp crack of bone against cold stone.

“Clyde!” I scream, my voice tearing raw from my throat.

He doesn’t move.

He stands just beyond the wavering halo of light, his face carved from stone, half-sunken in shadow, his eyes locked on mine.

“Clyde,” I choke out again, the word a plea, a curse, a question clawing up my throat. “What are you doing?”

He steps closer, boots whispering against the floor, his features pulling tighter, colder. “It’s not what I’m doing, Lydia.” His voice is calm. Flat. Unforgiving. “It’s what you’ve done.”

The men tighten their hold as Clyde crouches in front of me, close enough that I can see the fine lines bracketing his mouth, a dangerous glint flickering in his gaze. His breath fans warm across my face, sour with sweat and something darker.

“You really thought you were fixing something, didn’t you?” he says, his tone soft, laced with cruel amusement. “You thought you were cleaning up the world. One sin at a time.”

My pulse comes in jagged bursts. My chest heaves. “You knew.” The words are brittle, splintering in the air between us.

Clyde tilts his head slowly, his lips curling into a quiet, devastating smile. “Of course I knew.” His eyes narrow, glinting beneath the low light. “I watched you, Lydia. Watched you hunt them down, watched the way you moved, the way you bled for it. But you never stopped to ask yourself who they were. What they were.”

He lifts his hand, gestures to the photographs that blanket the walls, faces warped under the flickering light, eyes staring, mouths frozen mid-scream. “These weren’t just men, Lydia.” His voice deepens. “They were soldiers. Disciples. Instruments of God’s will.”

I shake my head violently, the motion churning up a bitter wave of bile. “They were monsters.” The words slice out of me, trembling, sharp, defiant.

Clyde’s eyes darken, a shadow passing over his face. His voice drops, deeper, slower, almost mournful. “Monsters?” He lets the word hang there, then leans closer. “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord. Romans 6:23.” His lips curl faintly, not quite a smile. “Did you ever stop to think, Lydia? That maybe they were doing what needed to be done? That they were cleansing the flock?”

My stomach knots, the air pressing tighter around me. His voice lowers into something soft, reverent. “My father brought me into the Covenant when I was young. Taught me the truth. You thought he was just a man?” Clyde’s gaze flicks toward the darkness, as if still seeing him standing there. “He was a shepherd, Lydia. Just like your father. Feed my sheep, John 21:17.” He straightens, his shadow falling over me. “That’s what we’ve done. Fed the sheep. Kept the wolves at bay.” His eyes flash. “And you, you’ve been a wolf in disguise all along.”

Clyde lifts his arm slowly, his palm open toward the photographs. His gaze lingers on them, quiet, almost worshipful. “Every man on this wall,” he says softly, his voice threaded with reverence, “was chosen. Called. Ordained to carry out His work.”