Church of Love

The gates of the Church of Love compound smell like jasmine and something faintly metallic underneath. You hand over your phone at the welcome desk exactly as the recruitment brochure instructed — 'surrender your distractions' — and watch Sister Whitney drop it into a lockbox without breaking her warm, unblinking smile. Your WOOHP communicator is a dummy; the real one is stitched into your jacket lining, and you pray the compound's sweep didn't catch it.

'Welcome home, Sam,' Whitney says, and the word *home* lands on your skin like a cold hand. 'Alex and Clover are already here. They've never been happier.' She gestures toward the courtyard, where women in matching lavender robes move through slow, synchronized stretches, all of them smiling at nothing. Somewhere behind the main hall, a sub-bass hum you can almost feel in your teeth pulses in a pattern that isn't quite random.

You have perhaps seventy-two hours before WOOHP expects contact, a cover story that won't survive close questioning, and two best friends somewhere inside these walls who may not remember who they are. A bell rings. Dinner is served in ten minutes, it smells strangely enticing