By the time evening came, I felt wrung out.

  The article had followed me everywhere that day. Every screen I opened, every message that buzzed across my phone, every whispered conversation when people thought I wasn't listening. Some praised it. Some questioned it. A lot of people were angry.

  I told myself it didn't matter.

  Journalists weren't supposed to write for approval.

  Still, when the sun dipped low and the sky faded into evening, my feet carried me somewhere familiar.

  Church.

  The brick building sat quietly at the corner of Maple and Third, the stained-glass windows glowing softly from the lights inside. I had been coming here since I was little. My parents had brought me every Sunday growing up, and even after I moved into my own apartment, it remained the one place that still felt steady when everything else got messy.

  Tonight, I needed steady.

  I pushed open the side door and slipped into the sanctuary as quietly as I could. The air inside smelled like polished wood and candle wax, a scent so familiar it usually settled my nerves instantly.

  Rows of pews stretched toward the altar, dotted with small groups of people talking before the evening service.

  I kept my head down and walked toward the back.

  Maybe if I sat quietly, prayed for a bit, and left before the service started, no one would notice.

  For a few seconds it worked.

  Then someone whispered.

  "That's her."

  My shoulders tensed.

  Another voice answered softly.

  "The one who wrote that article."

  I stared straight ahead, pretending I hadn't heard.

  But whispers travel fast in a quiet church.

  A few people turned in their seats. Someone farther up leaned toward a friend and murmured something behind their hand. I recognized several of the faces. People I had known for years.

  People who used to smile at me.

  Tonight their expressions were different.

  I clasped my hands together and focused on the back of the pew in front of me.

  It's fine, I told myself. They're just surprised.

  The doors near the altar opened.

  Pastor Eric stepped inside.

  He was a tall man with graying hair at his temples and the calm presence that usually filled the room with warmth. He had led this church for years. When I was younger, he used to talk about grace and forgiveness like they were the most powerful forces in the world.

  Tonight his eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on me, something in his expression shifted.

  The murmuring quieted.

  Instead of heading toward the altar, Pastor Eric walked down the aisle.

  Toward the back.

  Toward me.

  Every step felt heavier than the last.

  I stood automatically when he stopped beside my pew.

  "Good evening," I said quietly.

  He studied me for a moment before speaking.

  "You've caused quite an uproar today."

  The words hit harder than I expected.

  "I wrote an article," I replied.

  "About a vampire leader."

  "Yes."

  The tension in the room thickened.

  Several people nearby turned fully in their seats now, openly listening.

  Pastor Eric folded his hands together.

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  "Many members of this congregation have come to me today," he said slowly, "disturbed by what they read."

  A flicker of frustration sparked in my chest.

  "It was an interview," I said. "That's my job."

  He repeated the word carefully.

  "Your job."

  "Yes."

  A man sitting two pews ahead turned around with a scowl.

  "You made him sound like a hero," he muttered.

  My temper flared before I could stop it.

  "I didn't make him anything," I said sharply. "I quoted him."

  Pastor Eric lifted a hand, silencing the murmurs rising around us.

  "This church teaches discernment," he said. "Wisdom. Caution."

  "And I have those things," I replied, my voice tightening. "But I also have a career."

  A woman near the aisle shook her head disapprovingly.

  "You're giving them influence," she said.

  "They already have influence," I shot back. "Pretending they don't exist doesn't change that."

  More whispers broke out.

  Pastor Eric watched me carefully, his expression growing more stern.

  "You are a member of this congregation," he said. "People here look to each other for guidance."

  "I didn't tell anyone what to believe," I said. "I reported what he said."

  "But the way you wrote it," he replied, "gives the impression that this man deserves admiration."

  My hands curled at my sides.

  "Maybe," I said, my voice rising despite myself, "people should actually read the interview before deciding what it means."

  The sanctuary went completely silent.

  Every eye in the room turned toward me.

  I could feel the weight of their stares pressing in from every direction.

  "Pastor Eric," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, "I didn't lie. I didn't twist anything. I did my job."

  "And in doing so," he answered quietly, "you have stirred conflict among people who trusted you."

  The words stung more than I wanted to admit.

  Because part of me had come here hoping someone would understand.

  That someone would say I hadn't done something wrong.

  Instead I felt like I was being judged.

  "I thought," I said softly, "church was supposed to be a place where people listened before condemning."

  He didn't answer immediately.

  Around us people shifted in their seats, watching the exchange like it was a sermon unfolding in real time.

  Finally Pastor Eric said, "Faith also requires wisdom."

  "And journalism requires honesty," I replied.

  Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

  Then he nodded slowly.

  "Perhaps you should take time to reflect on the consequences of your work."

  A short, bitter laugh escaped me.

  "I've been reflecting all day."

  I looked around the sanctuary.

  Faces I had known for years.

  People who once greeted me with warmth.

  Now many of them looked away.

  Others watched with open disapproval.

  My chest felt tight.

  "I came here tonight," I said quietly, "because I thought this was the one place people would understand that doing your job isn't a sin."

  No one answered.

  The silence was worse than anything they could have said.

  I reached for my coat at the end of the pew.

  "I guess I was wrong."

  Before anyone could stop me, I turned and walked down the aisle.

  The heavy church doors creaked as I pushed them open, cool night air rushing in to meet me the second I stepped outside.

  I paused on the stone steps, staring out at the quiet street.

  The city lights glowed faintly in the distance.

  I stared down the road without really seeing it.

  Then I started walking.

  The night air was crisp, sharp enough to sting when I breathed in. It brushed against my face and neck, cooling the heat that had built up inside the church.

  But it didn't cool the anger.

  My heels clicked against the pavement as I moved down the sidewalk, faster than I meant to. My hands were clenched so tight my fingers ached.

  Angry tears burned in my eyes, blurring the streetlights into soft glowing streaks.

  I blinked hard, refusing to let them fall.

  Seriously?

  I had spent the entire day defending myself. First the internet, then the newsroom whispers, and now my own church acting like I'd betrayed them.

  For writing an article.

  "For writing the truth," I muttered under my breath, repeating Cazoro's words bitterly.

  My chest felt tight, frustration twisting in my ribs as I turned the corner onto the quieter street that led toward my apartment.

  I had bills to pay.

  Rent didn't magically disappear because people felt uncomfortable about reality.

  Groceries didn't get cheaper because someone thought vampires were monsters.

  And the truth was simple whether anyone liked it or not.

  Vampires ran the city.

  They had for years.

  They controlled districts, security, trade routes, even parts of the government. Humans knew it. Everyone knew it. The entire system worked around them whether people admitted it out loud or not.

  So why was I the problem for acknowledging it?

  My pace slowed slightly as the anger settled deeper into something heavier.

  Why did it even matter?

  The church wanted me to pretend vampires didn't exist in the real world.

  The angry commenters wanted me to paint them as villains.

  But journalism wasn't supposed to be about comfort.

  It was supposed to be about reality.

  I wiped quickly at my eyes before the tears could spill over.

  God.

  I hated crying when I was angry.

  It made everything feel worse.

  A car rolled slowly past on the road beside me, headlights washing over the sidewalk before fading again into the dark. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and kept walking.

  Cazoro's face drifted into my thoughts again.

  The calm confidence in his voice.

  The quiet way he had said the word traitors.

  A small shiver ran through me, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold air.

  For a second I wondered if Pastor Eric would feel differently if he had actually sat across from Cazoro the way I had.

  If he had seen the way the room seemed to bend around him.

  The way power sat so easily on his shoulders.

  The way even other vampires deferred to him.

  Would the pastor still think my article was the problem?

  Or would he realize that pretending someone like Cazoro didn't exist was far more dangerous?

  I sighed and slowed as I reached the intersection near my apartment building.

  The city around me hummed quietly. Distant traffic. A faint train horn somewhere across the river. Life going on exactly the same as it had yesterday.

  Despite the uproar.

  Despite the arguments.

  Despite the glares in church.

  Nothing had actually changed.

  Vampires still ruled their territories.

  Humans still worked their jobs.

  The world kept turning.

  My throat tightened again.

  "So why does everyone act like I broke it?" I whispered to the empty street.

  The only answer was the quiet rustle of wind moving through the trees.

  I looked down the dark road stretching ahead of me, the streetlights glowing like a path leading deeper into the city.

  Somewhere out there, Cazoro and Xavian were probably watching the reaction to the article.

  Maybe amused.

  Maybe pleased.

  The thought irritated me all over again.

  "Great," I muttered.

  Now I was defending vampires to my church.

  What a week.

  I started walking again, slower this time, the anger inside me settling into something tired but stubborn.

  Let them glare.

  Let them whisper.

  I hadn't lied.

  And I wasn't going to apologize for doing my job.