The Unseen Veil

Chapter Five: The Unseen Veil

The world moved on, unaware of the soul just damned. Elias Thorn was buried beneath polished earth, and above him, the living carried on—faster, louder, colder.

From above the veil, the Seven watched. So did their silent reapers, blending into the background of everyday life.

The city breathed, alive with ambition and rot.

In the Glass Towers

In a thirty-fifth-floor boardroom, power played like a game.

"Cut departments 2 and 4," said the CEO, sipping dark roast from a gold-rimmed cup.

"Sir, that's over two hundred jobs—" a young analyst began.

"That's two hundred liabilities. Evolution picks the strongest. I'm just helping nature."

No one noticed the tall figure in black standing beside the printer, its eyes like hollow lanterns. A reaper. Quiet. Watching.

In the White Corridors of Mercy

At a busy hospital, a nurse clicked a digital chart closed.

"I already covered for him," she told the new intern. "Just sign it."

"But he didn't give the dose—"

"And if anyone finds out, we're both out of jobs."

Down the hall, a man coded in Room 414.

A reaper watched his soul drift—confused, incomplete.

In a Megachurch Studio

She was the light of Eastbridge.

Reverend Serah Monroe.

Her smile could baptize a thousand hearts. Her voice, velvet wrapped in scripture.

Tonight, she filmed a message for global broadcast:

"We must be the hands of God," she declared. "We must feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the forgotten."

Her congregation roared.

The lights dimmed. The applause faded.

Backstage, her assistant handed her a phone.

"You just passed a million views. And there's a new donation spike. Corporate sponsors want a lunch next week."

She offered a modest smile.

"Make it Tuesday. And add a zero to my charity bonus."

In her private quarters, she opened a drawer beneath her Bible shelf. Inside: receipts, cash transfers, sealed non-disclosure agreements.

Names she paid to forget.

One of them had overdosed last year.

Another committed suicide.

She lit a scented candle and whispered a prayer over her brandy.

"Thank you, Lord, for your provision."

Behind her, the reflection in the mirror did not match her movement.

A reaper stood just behind the glass.

Waiting.

In a Suburban Kitchen

A man gripped a bottle with shaking hands.

His wife stared down at her bruised arm. The child in the next room turned the volume on the TV louder.

"I'm sorry," he said, for the fourth time this week.

"No, you're not," she replied, for the first.

In the corner, a dark figure leaned against the fridge—face obscured, tall and unmoving.

Another watcher. Another scribe of what the world hoped to hide.

In a Forgotten Alley

A soul slipped from a broken body.

The man had no name. No ID. Just a worn coat, a weathered face, and lungs filled with cold city air.

Three reapers stood with him. None took notes.

"He stole food," one said softly.

"To live," another answered.

"He gave half of it to the girl in the park."

The third reaper stepped forward and extended a hand. Gently, the soul rose—bathed in warm gold.

"Let the Veiled see what man refused to."

Above All

The Seven Veiled stood in their realm, gazing through shimmering arches.

"So many sins," said the First. "And yet so few called by name."

"So many saints," the Second whispered, "with blood on their hands."

The Seventh turned to the others.

"Another one nears."

"The preacher?" asked the Fourth.

"Yes," the Seventh answered. "Serah Monroe."

The Fifth scoffed. "The world will mourn her like a queen."

The Sixth, bitter and calm, added, "And we will meet her like a mirror."

At that very moment, Serah walked through her rose garden, beneath moonlight, rehearsing her next sermon.

"Blessed are the pure in heart," she whispered.

Behind her, a shadow passed through the roses—petals withering in its wake.

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