Page 143 of Eternal

AZRA

“Bring Me To Life” by Evanescence

Present

H e reassured me. Like it was that simple. That he wasn’t going anywhere. That he’d stay, through every ugly, broken part of this.

But does he really know what that means?

He’s seen me shattered. Saw me cry when I thought no one could. Saw the darkness I try to bury, the scars I wear beneath my skin. He’s seen me at my worst… and still, he’s here.

Right now, he’s on the bike behind me. We’re heading toward that so-called church and my heart is racing.

We’re dressed in white, just like the others. The kind of people who smile at cameras by day and auction kids by night.

Security’s tight. The invitation only lets in those who belong to the Veil.

I’m scared. But Damir’s here. And somehow, that makes me steady enough to keep going.

He takes off his helmet first, then helps me with mine. His hands catch my face gently. “I’m here. Remember?”

“I know,” I whisper. “I’m going to need you to let me do this alone,” I say, voice trembling.

He nods, voice soft but sure: “I’ll watch you.”

“Please... don’t judge me after this.”

He leans down, lips brushing mine. “I’ll never judge you.”

The church looks deceptively serene from outside, all white stone and towering columns, like a monument to holiness. But in reality it’s a cage.

Kat’s forged invitation burns in my pocket, the name Elenea Ferere printed neat and official on the paper. Damir’s right beside me, not holding my hand, but close enough that I can feel his presence.

At the entrance, the guards barely glance at us, the papers check out, the names pass, and we step inside.

The crowd is all white too. Robes, suits, dresses, smiling proudly.

The church’s interior is a contrast to the pure facade outside, ornate and chilling all at once. Behind the altar, where a pastor stands, there’s a long crimson chair, like a throne soaked in sin, in people’s pain.

The pastor begins the sermon. His voice is smooth, reverent, but I hear the lies in every word. He praises “purity” and “salvation,” but all I see is greed and cruelty masked as faith.

My hands clench at my sides. I want to tear this place down. I want to kill them all.

But Damir stays quiet, his presence grounding me. I’m not alone in this nightmare.

The pastor’s voice rises, “Welcome, brothers and sisters. Tonight we gather in grace and gratitude.”

Heads bow; hands fold. A few mouths murmur the prayer like a chant.

“The gifts bestowed upon us today,” the pastor continues, eyes sweeping the room, “but they are not without purpose. These children, pure and chosen, a sacred catalog for those who truly appreciate the divine, the innocence.”

A slow, chilling smile curls on his lips.

“Once a month, we convene here to celebrate our commitment. A communion not just of faith, but of power. And tonight, the finest offerings shall be presented.”

He pauses, letting it sink in.

I sit at the very back, Damir beside me. His fingers brush mine briefly and I glance at him.

His eyes flicker, unreadable, but I catch the faintest nod. No one else notices.

The congregation repeats the words, eyes closed, smiles fixed. Some subtly clench fists or purse lips, but none break the facade.

Damir shifts beside me, rising quietly without a sound. His chair slides softly back. He melts into the shadows near the side exit, watching, waiting for me to act.

The pastor’s voice drifts on, “Tonight, we honor tradition. Our benefactors choose from our sacred catalog, children to be delivered, to be cleansed, to be reborn in their own hands.”

I feel my heart pound and I just want to throw up. Damir is gone now.

I stand slowly, heart steadying, steps measured. My hand slides beneath my dress, fingers wrapping around the cold steel of my gun. I slid my hand down to the extra mags strapped tight to my thigh. One quick reload, and I’d be ready to take them all down.

I reach the heavy wooden doors and pull them closed with a loud, echoing slam. The sound reverberates through the hall, halting every prayer mid-chant.

All eyes snap toward me, surprise and confusion blooming on every face.

Without hesitation, I step forward to the holy water font. I dip the barrel of my gun into the water, letting the sacred liquid drip and bead along the steel like a baptism.

“Forgive me, Father,” I say, voice loud, “for I am about to sin.”

The congregation holds its breath. Then, raising the gun, I fire the first shot.

Dead. One by one. Row by row.

They run, only to drop with a hole in the head. They scream, then fall silent. Bodies hit the floor, clawing at doors I already locked tight. Then I turn and shoot him. The pastor.

He crumples to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, soaking through the pristine white of my dress until it’s streaked and stained dark red.

He looks around. Dead. All of them. Dead.

My hands tremble, gripping the gun tighter than I ever have before.

“Who’s running this?” I demand, “Who pays you? Who’s behind all of it? You’re the last step, aren’t you? The one who makes this whole nightmare real.”

He coughs, a wet, rattling sound, but he manages a bitter laugh that twists my stomach.

“Important? You think I’m important?” His eyes flicker with dark amusement, pain, and something like contempt. “It’s up there. Higher than you or me. Untouchable.”

I grit my teeth, fury burning so hot it drowns out everything but the screams tearing through my chest. “Tell me.”

He looks at me like I’m a child chasing shadows.

“You’re chasing ghosts,” he says, voice cracked but steady. “You think you’re hunting monsters? You’re just a pawn in their game.”

I swallow hard, rage burning in my chest.

“Explain. Now.”

His breath is ragged, each word dragging him closer to death.

“You killed Donovan. Antony.” He spits out the names like curses. “I know because it’s written. Your path was set. In a journal. Someone wanted you to find them. But you took it personally and found me. That’s… Impressive.”

My breath catches.

“How do you know that?”

A cruel smile tugs at his lips, blood mixing with spit. “That journal, the one you cling to like it's the truth, it’s not what you think. You’re playing right into their hands, Azra Al Mansour.”

My name… He knows my name…

My heart pounds so loud I’m sure it echoes in the room.

“Who? Who did that? What do you fucking mean?”

He coughs violently, blood trickling from his mouth.

“You shouldn’t trust what you’re given. Journals can be forged. Clues planted. You’re being used… just like they planned.”

His eyes flutter shut, breath fading.

I raised the gun again, finger tightening on the trigger, but the chamber was empty. Nothing left.

I scanned the room, desperate. His desk. There, a pair of sharp gold scissors. I snatched them up, heart pounding, and lunged. “No,” I hissed, stabbing him again, harder, desperate for answers. “What the hell does it mean?”

Blood soaks my hands and dress, warm and sticky. My knees press into the cold floor, and the room feels like it’s closing in.

My mind reels back to that journal, the same one a cop handed me years ago, the one that set this whole bloody revenge in motion. The lines blur between what I wanted to believe and the possibility that everything was a lie.

I’m shaking. Used? Me? Since the beginning?

My head spins, the words crashing inside like waves. My mom’s journal?

They wanted me to do this. This…all of it.

I’m shaking hard, part rage, part terror. My dress is soaked, red blossoming over white like a stain I’ll never wash away.

All this time, all the pain, the blood, the ghosts chasing me, they knew. They planned it, they wanted me broken.

And I walked right into it, like a damn fool.

My fists clench, nails digging into my skin. I don’t care, I don’t care anymore.

How do you fuck someone over so deep they don’t even know they’re hurt until it’s too late?

I’m screaming inside, screaming at the world, at the ghosts, at the lies that built my life.

And he, the man I just shot… he’s the last piece of a puzzle I don’t even want to finish anymore.

But I have to. Because if this is true… then everything I thought I knew about me was a lie.

I’m broken. Used. Played. And… I’m lost .