The sun rose on Saturday with a crisp, unrelenting brightness that seemed to mock the tension lingering in the Oliver household.
After a silent breakfast, Father Oliver stood at the head of the table, his hands clasped behind his back in his "commander" stance.
"Before you two begin this research project I've heard so much about," Father Oliver announced, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "the rectory requires maintenance. Jim, you are to clear the overgrown brush by the north fence. Mauwa, since you have the strength for it, I want the woodpile moved and restacked in the shed. Discipline first, academics second."
Jim nodded stiffly, grateful for the physical labor. He needed the exhaustion to drown out the memory of the car ride. Mauwa simply grabbed his work gloves, his eyes lingering on Jim for a fraction of a second—a silent truce for the sake of their chores—before they headed out to the yard.
Across town, the atmosphere was far less disciplined. Mike pulled his motorcycle up to a modest, charming house with a well-manicured garden. He adjusted his leather jacket, a predatory glint in his eyes as he approached the front door. He wasn't just here for IT research; he was here for complicated reasons."
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by a woman with a warm, radiant smile and eyes that crinkled with genuine kindness.
"Good morning! Can I help you?" she asked.
"Good morning, ma'am," Mike said, shifting into his most charming, polite persona. "I'm Mike, a Senior from the University. I'm here to work with Jared on our Information Technology project. Mr. Halloway sent me."
"Oh, you must be the mentor! I'm Mrs. Loved, Jared's mother," she said, stepping aside to let him in. "You're such a handsome young man. But I'm afraid you've come at a bad time. Poor Jared woke up with a terrible migraine. He's been in bed all morning. He's quite sick."
Mike paused, his smile faltering for only a heartbeat. Sick? he thought, his mind racing. The little bird is trying to fly away. He knew Jared had been terrified in the lab; feigning a sickness was the oldest trick in the book to avoid an unwanted guest.
"Oh, that's a shame," Mike said, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. "But I really must see him. The project is on a very tight deadline, and even if he can't work, I need to get his login credentials.I just want to check on my partner."
Mrs. Loved, blinded by Mike's apparent "dedication" and polite demeanor, softened immediately. "That's so responsible of you. Go right on up, dear. Second door on the left."
Upstairs, Jared was lounging in bed, propped up by pillows with a comic book in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. He looked the picture of health. He had spent the last hour congratulating himself on his genius.
He'll never come up here, Jared thought, a smug grin on his face. Mom thinks I'm dying, and Mike will just have to turn around and go back ." Victory for Jared.
Suddenly, the floorboards in the hallway groaned. A firm, rhythmic knock sounded on the door. Jared scrambled, shoving the chips under the duvet and pulling the covers up to his chin, twisting his face into a mask of "agony."
"Come in," Jared groaned weakly, closing his eyes.
The door creaked open. Jared expected to hear his mother's worried voice, but instead, the room suddenly felt smaller, colder, and filled with a familiar, dangerous energy.
"You look terrible, Jared," a rich, mocking baritone said. "Truly. It's a miracle you're even breathing."
Jared's eyes snapped open. Standing at the foot of his bed, leaning against the doorframe with that same "creepy," knowing smile, was Mike. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the corner of the chip bag sticking out from under the blanket.
"I didn't realize migraines required salt and vinegar therapy," Mike remarked, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft, final click.
Jared sat bolt upright, the "sickness" vanishing instantly. "How did you get in here? I told you I didn't want to see you! Get out of my room!"
"Your mother is a lovely woman, Jared," Mike said, walking toward the bed and sitting on the very edge, invading Jared's personal space just like he had in the lab. "She knows I'm here to save your grade."
He leaned in, his shadow falling over the terrified Jared. "You thought a little lie would stop me? You clearly don't know how dedicated I am to my... 'aesthetic' research."
***
Under the blistering Saturday sun, the rectory yard was filled with the rhythmic sounds of labor. Jim struggled with a rotted fence post at the edge of the property, his knuckles raw from digging into the stubborn, sun-baked earth. A few yards away, Mauwa was effortlessly hoisting heavy logs, his shirt discarded in the heat, his skin glistening with sweat.
Jim tried to keep his eyes fixed on the dirt, but the silence between them was heavy with the ghost of yesterday's car ride.
"You're digging it wrong," Mauwa said suddenly, dropping a log with a heavy thud. He walked over, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "You're fighting the ground, Jim. You have to work with it."
"I am doing exactly what my father instructed," Jim snapped, though his breath was coming in ragged gasps.
Mauwa reached down, his large hand wrapping around the top of the post. With a single, powerful shove followed by a pull, he wrenched the rotted wood from the earth. "Sometimes the structure is too decayed to save, Jim. You have to pull it out by the root before you can build something new."
He looked at Jim, his gaze dropping to Jim's hands. "About Cherry... and that boy, Mark. You were ready to call the authorities. That's your firewall talking again. But some predators don't care about rules. They only care about who's standing in their way."
Jim wiped his hands on his trousers, his chest heaving. "And you? You think violence is the answer? You think being the 'biggest, meanest person' makes it right?"
"It makes it stop," Mauwa replied, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "I know I crossed a line yesterday. I know the weight of my own hands better than anyone right now. But the world is full of Mikes and Marks. If you don't learn how to stand your ground without a prayer book in your hand, they'll walk right over you."
Jim looked at the empty hole in the ground, then at Mauwa. For the first time, he didn't see a monster; he saw a man who was intimately acquainted with his own darkness. "I don't want to be like you, Mauwa."
"You couldn't be if you tried," Mauwa said, a ghost of his usual smirk returning. "But you can't keep pretending the world is made of glass while you're made of stone. Grab the new post. Let's finish this before your father comes out to audit our souls."
Back at the Loved residence, the air in Jared's bedroom had become claustrophobic. Mike remained perched on the edge of the bed, his presence making the twin-sized mattress feel like a cage.
"Get off my bed," Jared hissed, clutching his duvet to his chest. "I'm calling my mom. I'll tell her you're harassing me."
"And tell her what, exactly?" Mike asked, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "That I'm sitting here trying to help you with your education? She already thinks I'm a saint. If you scream, I'll just tell her you're having a 'migraine episode.' She'll probably bring me a cup of tea for staying by your side."
Mike reached out and picked up the IT textbook Jared had abandoned. He began flipping through the pages with a slow, deliberate thumb.
"Let's talk about 'User Interface,' Jared. It's all about how a person interacts with a system. Some systems are easy to navigate. Others..." he looked up, his eyes locking onto Jared's, "they require a bit of force to get to the core data."
"I'm not a system," Jared whispered, his voice trembling.
"No, you're a masterpiece of aesthetic perfection," Mike corrected him, his 'creepy' smile widening as he leaned in, his face inches from Jared's. "But you're very, very buggy. All this fear, all this running... it's a flaw in the code. I think I need to spend the whole weekend 'debugging' you."
He reached out a hand, his fingers grazing the top of Jared's head, smoothing down a lock of hair. Jared flinched, but Mike didn't pull away. The touch was possessive, a 'territorial marking' that made Jared's skin crawl.
"Now," Mike whispered, his breath warm against Jared's ear. "Open your laptop. We're going to work on this project. And every time you try to pull away or feign another 'migraine,' I'm going to remind you exactly how much I know about where you live, where you go, and just how 'beautiful' I think you look when you're scared."
Jared reached for his laptop with shaking hands, feeling the walls of his own bedroom—his final sanctuary—shatter around him.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long, orange shadows through the windows of the rectory. Father Oliver stood at the entrance of the small study, his presence as imposing as a cathedral pillar.
"You've finished your physical labors," Father Oliver noted, his eyes scanning their dirt-streaked clothes. "Now, apply that same diligence to your minds. But first, let us center ourselves."
He bowed his head, and Jim and Mauwa followed suit. "Lord, grant these young men clarity, focus, and a spirit of cooperation. May their work be a reflection of Your order. Amen."
"Amen," Jim whispered, his heart already beginning to race at the prospect of the door closing behind his father.
As they headed toward the study, Jim saw Cherry sprawled on the living room sofa, her thumbs flying across her phone screen as she played a loud, colorful mobile game. A wave of desperation hit Jim;
"Cherry!" Jim called out, perhaps a bit too loudly. "Why don't you bring your books into the study? We can all do our weekend homework together. It'll be... productive."
Cherry didn't even look up from her screen. "No thanks, Jim. The study smells like old paper and Mauwa's gym bag. Besides, I'm on a high score. Go be geniuses without me."
"Cherry, I really think—"
"Leave her, Jim," Mauwa interrupted, his voice a low, smooth rumble behind him. "She's clearly occupied. Let's not force the girl to be 'productive' on a Saturday night."
Jim felt the trap snap shut. He walked into the tiny study, a room lined with heavy theological tomes and a single, narrow mahogany desk. It was cramped, airless, and smelled faintly of lavender polish and Mauwa's lingering scent.
Mauwa walked in and immediately pulled a chair right next to the one Jim had claimed. He sat down, his large frame taking up nearly two-thirds of the available legroom under the desk.
"Alright, Class Rep," Mauwa said, leaning in so his shoulder was inches from Jim's. "Let's open the school portal."
Jim stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floorboards. Without a word, he grabbed his laptop and his notebook, walked around the desk, and sat in the hard-backed guest chair on the opposite side. He placed his laptop between them like a shield, staring at Mauwa across the narrow expanse of wood.
Mauwa stayed seated, his hands resting casually on the desk. He tilted his head, his dark eyes tracking Jim's every movement with an expression of amused curiosity.
"What's the problem, Jim?" Mauwa asked, his voice dropping into that dangerously soft register. "Is the desk too small, or am I just too... unauthorized for your 'internal security' today?"