Pastor Justin stood by the doorway, offering a warm hug to every departing congregant, occasionally exchanging a few words with one. When Brook Lee's turn came, Pastor Justin embraced him, then paused to speak first. «Welcome to our service, my brother. If my memory serves, this is your first time here, isn't it?»
Brook was genuinely surprised. Though the church was modest in scale, he had discreetly counted 153 people attending this single service. Considering the church hosted multiple sessions every Sunday, the total congregation had to be well over 400. That Pastor Justin could confidently identify a first-time visitor demonstrated an impressive dedication to his ministry. «You have a fine memory, Pastor Justin. My name is Brook Lee, and here is my card.» Brook slipped a business card from his pocket, handing it over while seizing the opportunity to extend an invitation. «If your schedule permits, Pastor, I would be honored to buy you a meal or a coffee. There are a few matters I would love to ask your guidance on.»
Pastor Justin paused briefly, considering the request. «Of course. I would be glad to help if I am able. Please wait just a moment while I change out of my vestments.» True to his word, the pastor moved quickly. In less than ten minutes, he returned in casual civilian clothes, walking out with an easy demeanor. «Thank you for your patience. How about we head to The Conch? It is just a short walk from here, and the atmosphere is quite pleasant.»
«Lead the way, Pastor Justin,» Brook replied. The restaurant was indeed close by-less than a five-minute stroll under the pastor's guidance. From the outside, the establishment looked as though it had seen a few decades, but the interior was spacious. A television mounted on the wall was tuned to a news program. Although it was approaching the noon lunch rush, more than a third of the tables remained open. They chose a table with plenty of space around it, ordered lunch according to their preferences, and Brook covered the bill.
Eating, however, was not Brook's primary objective. As soon as both had finished their meals, he got straight to the point. «Pastor Justin, as a researcher of occultism, I have a deep curiosity about unknown, mysterious phenomena. Having just moved to this area, I am largely unfamiliar with the local history and occurrences. If you could assist me by providing detailed background materials on such matters, I would be more than happy to make a personal financial donation to your church.»
«Brother Brook,» Pastor Justin said, his eyes narrowing slightly, «how much of a donation were you considering?»
Brook chuckled inwardly. For a man in holy robes, you certainly get down to business quickly. «How does two hundred dollars sound?»
«Records concerning the unknown and the esoteric are exceptionally rare,» Pastor Justin replied evenly. «Even the local police department does not possess the kind of archives I have accumulated.»
«Three hundred dollars.»
«I have ministered in this parish for six years,» the pastor noted calmly. «I doubt anyone knows the local history better than I do.»
«Three hundred and fifty.»
«I also happen to possess certain records left behind by my predecessors.»
«Four hundred dollars.»
Pastor Justin offered no further arguments, simply regarding Brook with a mild, pleasant smile. Brook counted out four hundred dollars in cash from his wallet and handed the stack across the table. The pastor meticulously counted the bills, tucked them away, and pulled out a small leather-bound receipt book. Using a fountain pen, he filled out an official church tax receipt, accepting the personal contribution in the name of the parish. «I will need a little time to organize the materials,» Justin said, handing over the slip. «You may come by the church to collect them the day after tomorrow, in the morning.»
«A pleasure doing business with you,» Brook said.
After lunch, the two walked back to the church grounds. Following a brief parting embrace, they went their separate ways. Brook climbed into his Ford pickup truck and adjusted his hair in the rearview mirror. Instead of starting the engine immediately to head home, he sat back, retracing his interaction with Pastor Justin in his mind.
To the casual observer, nothing about Pastor Justin seemed remiss-and Brook was not merely referring to the man's pleasant, courteous demeanor. He was considering the pastor's outward physical expressions. Human physiology followed immutable laws; emotional states manifested not just mentally, but physically. Emotions like anger, grief, or hidden joy triggered physiological shifts. Even if a person consciously suppressed their reactions, the subtle bodily responses were, to Brook, as plain as day. Modern psychology had studied these micro-expressions extensively for interrogation and sleight-of-hand magic, and esoteric traditions drew heavily upon similar principles for mind-reading techniques. In terms of textbook psychology, Brook was barely a novice, but he possessed an unfair advantage: his supernatural ability of sensory control.
In practice, even seasoned professors who had studied human behavior for decades could hardly match Brook's perceptive sharpness. With ordinary people, Brook could effortlessly pry open their superficial façades, reading their suppressed emotions and securing an absolute upper hand. Yet with Pastor Justin, he had run into a wall. It was not that the pastor lacked normal physiological reactions, but rather that years of rigorous spiritual discipline had trained his body to maintain a baseline of flat, steady equilibrium. For Brook, this was immensely frustrating. If a person's physiological state remained as lifeless as a stagnant pond, how was he supposed to gauge their shifting emotions?
Ultimately, it came down to the fact that Brook's own power was still too weak. Without direct physical contact, the information he could gather through sensory control was limited, restricting its practical utility. Enhancing his own strength remained the only true way forward.
Brook held up his fingers, mentally running through his plan. Building his local network required three distinct steps: connecting with the local police, establishing a link with the local Christian clergy, and making inroads with local journalists. He had already visited the precinct to handle some paperwork; the official approvals would likely clear soon, and frequent drop-ins thereafter would at least make his face familiar. As for the local clergy, he had secured Pastor Justin; once he retrieved the records in two days, attending a weekly service would suffice without needing to get overly cozy. That left the journalists. Brook had been waiting for a suitable opening, confident that an opportunity would eventually present itself. After all, this was Los Angeles, and he was hardly picky-whether it was a print reporter, a television journalist, a digital news writer, or even a freelance stringer, any contact would do. He simply needed someone to introduce him into those circles, and given the sheer number of media professionals in the city, he wasn't worried about running out of options.
In reality, that opportunity took three whole months to arrive, largely due to Brook's own choices. Once he acquired the archives from Pastor Justin and supplemented them with accessible police records, the sheer volume of information-even if secondary-kept him thoroughly occupied. Combined with his grueling personal training regimen to enhance his abilities, his schedule quickly became packed. Because he refrained from actively seeking out media contacts, his entry into journalistic circles was continuously pushed back.
By late April, the movie industry was gearing up for the lucrative Hollywood summer blockbuster season. Heavy promotional campaigns were launching daily, and smaller films, knowing they couldn't compete with major studio tentpoles, rushed to secure theater screens while they could. Having spent months cooped up in his sanctuary, Brook decided it was time for a change of pace. He resolved to spend his daytime hours out in the open, taking in the bustle of the city to clear his head. It was better than prowling the streets at midnight, where witnessing too many nightmarish entities lurking in the shadows of Los Angeles threatened to darken his own outlook on life.
That morning, Brook drove his pickup out, intending to head toward Venice Beach. Midway there, he noticed a crowd gathering along the road. Police cruisers blocked the avenue, and officers were busy setting up yellow crime scene tape. The area was close to Larchmont Boulevard, not far from the local precinct, surrounded by affluent residential homes. Given the massive police presence, a serious crime-most likely a homicide-had occurred. Brook found a parking spot nearby and walked over to join the onlookers.
A few reporters had already arrived, setting up heavy camera equipment and positioning themselves strategically as they waited for a police spokesperson to deliver a press briefing. In broad daylight, and outside of a high-profile celebrity neighborhood like Beverly Hills, even the boldest journalists were reluctant to push past police lines without knowing the news value of the event. To pass the time, they began interviewing bystanders. Brook drifted into the crowd, listening in until he pieced together the situation.
The house belonged to the Wesley family, a prosperous household of three. The father was a senior executive at a materials firm, the mother a Hollywood talent agent, and they had a bright, thirteen-year-old daughter. Up until the previous evening, they had lived a comfortable, enviable life. But this morning, when the mother realized her daughter hadn't come down for breakfast, she went up to check her room-only to find the girl brutally murdered. The mother's frantic screams had reportedly alerted the entire neighborhood. Mr. Wesley called the police immediately, but judging by the fact that the authorities had been inside for hours without making a statement, the case was clearly a nightmare scenario.
Brook noticed a female reporter in the crowd. The logo on her microphone indicated she was with KTLA. While not one of the major national broadcast networks, it was an established local station with deep roots in Los Angeles. More importantly, Brook recognized her-Amelia, a well-known field reporter for the channel. Weaving his way through the dense throng, Brook reached the front line and caught Amelia's eye, subtly waving her over.
Amelia had just wrapped up an interview with an onlooker that yielded little useful information. Seeing Brook wave to her, her news instincts kicked in, and she stepped toward him, raising her microphone. To her surprise, Brook extended a hand and gently pushed the microphone down, signaling his refusal to be interviewed on camera. Before she could react to the rejection, he leaned in close, leaning toward her ear, and murmured softly, «It must be exhausting, managing two men at once.»
Amelia froze, a surge of alarm washing over her. Her immediate thought was that this stranger was attempting to blackmail her. Though caught off guard by the sudden exposure of her private life, she quickly mastered her composure. Modern social norms were far more permissive, and a woman having multiple relationships was hardly a scandal. Though twenty-five and unmarried, her private affairs broke no laws and breached no ethics. Even if exposed, the revelation would do little damage to her reputation or career. After the initial shock passed, she felt no real fear.
Before she could respond, Brook stepped back, regaining a respectable distance. He reached into his pocket, drew out a business card, and slid it into her hand. «If you ever need help dealing with the situation, Miss Amelia, feel free to look me up. I believe I can offer a solution.»
Amelia took the card almost on instinct. Caught completely off guard, she watched as Brook turned around, slipped into the dense crowd, and vanished within seconds.