Morgan Yates gnced at both Rina and Sasha before responding;

  “That’s a really important point, Rina. What 6C did—honestly, what they mastered—was reading the spiritual vacuum in those regions.”

  She leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but ced with analytical precision.

  “Yes, those twenty states were traditionally called the Bible Belt or parts of Middle America, but the cultural Christianity that existed there was already eroding. What 6C recognized was that nominal Christianity had long since stopped offering moral crity or institutional cohesion. A lot of those communities had churches that were just… coasting. People weren’t showing up. Sermons cked teeth. Pastors were tired. And that opened the door.”

  Morgan turned her gaze toward the rge calendar on the wall, almost as if the timeline itself told the story.

  “Now, here’s the brilliance—6C didn’t come in as iconocsts. They didn’t burn down churches. They absorbed them. They didn’t force conversions in the traditional sense. Instead, they reinterpreted the space. They brought in charismatic speakers, repced vague theology with bold certainties, and repurposed church networks to distribute their materials and services. In many small towns, it was the same pews, same buildings—but with a new creed.”

  She paused, giving Sasha and Rina a moment to let that sink in.

  “To a lot of locals, it didn’t even feel like a radical change. It felt like renewal. And for the agnostic or loosely spiritual crowd, 6C filled a void that had been empty for years. Structure, identity, destiny—it gave them something more compelling than passive belief. It gave them a mission.”

  Morgan sat back slightly, her voice taking on a quieter, more reflective tone.

  “They took the bones of dying churches and gave them muscle again. Not through violence, not through the state—through culture. Through ideology that felt simultaneously ancient and visionary. It's unsettlingly effective. And honestly? That kind of religious transition, that level of institutional transformation without violence... that's almost unprecedented in modern American history.”

  She gnced at Rina.

  “They didn’t need to purge the churches. The churches converted themselves.”

  "The Anti-Pauline Doctrine Laws. Now this… this is one of the most strategically radical pilrs in the 6C framework, but it’s cloaked in theological nuance, so most people miss its full implications.”

  She sat upright, her voice gaining momentum as she expined.

  “The Apostle Paul is foundational to Western Christian theology—especially on gender roles, sexuality, salvation through grace, and the retionship between w and faith. He’s the one who writes, ‘wives submit to your husbands,’ and ‘I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man.’ You pull Paul out of the New Testament, and suddenly you’ve amputated the ideological backbone of evangelical conservatism and Protestant liberalism. It’s surgical.”

  Morgan turned toward Rina, gesturing with her hands as she continued.

  “6C’s Anti-Pauline legistion didn’t just ban specific verses—they rejected the Pauline epistles entirely as corrupted or false texts. In their religious narrative, Paul’s teachings are viewed as a distortion of divine truth, a betrayal of the original prophetic path. They pce a much stronger emphasis on pre-Pauline Christianity, the Gospels, and certain Old Testament structures—but reinterpreted through their own prophetic lens.”

  She gnced at Sasha, then back again.

  “So what does this really do? It allows 6C to cim a religious foundation without carrying the historical baggage of Western Christian misogyny or progressive dilution. It opens the door to reconstruct gender roles from scratch—hence their strange but consistent support for structured polygamy, women's councils, and even the Wife Femme Cuse. It’s all engineered on a theological reset.”

  A wry smile touched her lips.

  “It's heresy by most Christian standards, but revolutionary in terms of ideological flexibility. By canceling Paul, 6C created space for a new system—one that borrows from Ism, ancient Hebrew w, and modern behavioral science. They did what no mainstream Christian or political institution could: they started over.”

  Morgan looked at them both with a half-serious, half-sardonic expression.

  “You want to rewrite civilization? First, rewrite your scripture.”

  Rina Matsui tilted her head slightly, her voice low but loaded with curiosity.

  "Are you saying... 6C might actually be a more viable political model for the U.S.—at least in certain regions?"

  Morgan Yates raised an eyebrow, then leaned back in her chair with a slow, deliberate nod.

  "In a strange, deeply controversial way—yes. Not universally, but in the regions they've taken over? Possibly. The traditional parties—Republicans and Democrats—are locked in an ideological arms race with no real innovation. They recycle the same frameworks: capitalism versus regution, tradition versus rights, nationalism versus inclusion. But 6C came in and tore the board off the table."

  She leaned forward now, intensity building in her voice.

  "They didn’t run on economics. They ran on identity, structure, order—and then embedded their entire system in a moral universe people could belong to. That’s not just politics. That’s meaning. And when people are disillusioned, disenfranchised, or spiritually adrift? Meaning wins every time."

  Morgan’s expression softened, but her eyes remained sharp.

  “It doesn’t make them right. But it makes them effective. Especially in a fragmented country where institutions have been hemorrhaging trust for decades.”

  Rina’s hands rested lightly on her p as she exchanged a brief gnce with Sasha. The converted warehouse office was quiet except for the low hum of a wall-mounted fan. Morgan Yates sat across from them, her brows slightly knit, sensing something unsaid.

  Rina spoke carefully, her voice even and academic in tone.

  “Morgan… before we go further, I think it’s important to be transparent about where we stand—now.”

  Morgan straightened up, eyes narrowing slightly but saying nothing.

  Rina continued.

  “Sasha and I… we’ve been working more closely with certain leadership circles in the 6C territories. Not in any official political capacity. But we’ve observed their systems up close. And—more recently—we’ve entered into a deeper colboration.”

  She paused, watching Morgan’s face.

  “That includes direct alignment with the 6C leadership in select policy domains.”

  Morgan’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

  Sasha leaned forward slightly, her voice low.

  “We’re still who we were. But our vantage point has changed.”

  Morgan exhaled, slow and long. She blinked, thoughtful. Then gave a cautious nod.

  “That... expins a lot.”

  Her voice was measured. Not judgmental. But definitely re-calibrating.

  Rina leaned back in her chair, her tone casual but edged with curiosity.

  “Morgan… you’ve dissected so much of 6C’s infrastructure, and you're sharp on policy dynamics. But what do you think of him? Of Hezri, personally?”

  Morgan raised an eyebrow, her fingers tapping lightly against her notebook.

  “The man behind the doctrine?”

  She hesitated, then offered her analysis in measured tones.

  “Hezri is… complex. Charismatic, certainly. He has the rare quality of presence—when he speaks, people shift. But more than that, he’s methodical. A systems-thinker. I don’t believe he’s just enforcing ideology. I think he’s designing something he sees as inevitable.”

  She paused.

  “He walks a tightrope between authoritarian strength and surprising accommodations for women. And somehow, he’s making that contradiction work… for now.”

  Morgan met Rina’s eyes.

  “But the real question is: how much of 6C is sustainable without him?”

  Rina’s voice softened, but the weight of her words hung in the air.

  “Hezri wants me under him—formally. Not just informally involved or sympathetic. He said he’s willing to fund my work, my research. And he asked about you.”

  Morgan Yates blinked. Her usually composed face gave way to something vulnerable—lips slightly parted, brow furrowed, the tiniest flicker of disbelief.

  “Me?” she asked, too quickly.

  Rina nodded, watching her carefully.

  “He knows who you are. Your work. Your insights. He said… you’re the kind of woman who shouldn’t be wasted fighting a broken system. He wants to bring you into the fold. Fund your research, give you full autonomy—but within 6C’s framework.”

  Morgan stood still, like her brain was loading too many conflicting thoughts at once.

  “That’s… not what I expected.” Her voice was low, unsure, as if trying to steady itself. “I mean, you—Rina—you were critical. Just like me. And now you're working with him?”

  Rina offered no defense, only a steady gaze.

  Morgan ran a hand through her hair, eyes flicking toward the floor.

  “This isn’t just theory anymore,” she murmured. “This is real.”

  A pause.

  “And if the man at the center of all this is looking at me... I don’t know whether to be honored or terrified.”

  Morgan slowly moved to the conversation pod, her body nguage quieter now, shoulders less squared. She sat down, fingers ced together in her p, eyes unfocused for a moment.

  “Back when I was fresh out of UT, I thought I was going to change everything. I worked for a senator, then a representative. I wrote policy briefs on maternal health, on equitable zoning, on institutional reform. And every single time, the final draft came back watered down, twisted, or buried. The best policies died in committees. The worst ones passed because they pyed to someone’s donor base.”

  She gave a dry, tired chuckle.

  “The most truth I ever saw was in closed-door meetings, and the most lies were spoken in front of cameras.”

  Morgan looked at Rina now, more grounded.

  “That’s why I left. Not because I don’t believe in politics—but because I stopped believing in these politicians.”

  A long pause followed. Then she sighed, as if shedding some weight.

  “Rina… I can’t say I’m not armed. But I also can’t deny what I’m seeing. You say Hezri wants me under him. That’s not something I can ignore—not because of ego, but because of what it could mean.”

  She looked down, then back up with slow conviction.

  “If there’s a space—somewhere outside this broken framework—where good policy isn’t just theory, where it’s enacted, funded, and followed through… maybe I owe it to myself to at least listen.”

  Rina gnced at Morgan, her expression unreadable, then tapped the screen and pced her phone on the low table between them. The call connected, and within seconds, Hezri’s deep voice came through the speaker—smooth, commanding, and unmistakably confident.

  “Dr. Rina. Is she with you now?”

  Rina gave a small nod toward Morgan. “She’s here. Listening.”

  A pause. Then Hezri continued, voice unflinching:

  “Morgan Yates. I’ve read your reports. Studied your projections. I know the kind of mind you carry. The kind of integrity you’ve preserved in a system designed to erode it.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply.

  “I want to buy you. Not just your policy brain. I want your heart, your loyalty—your body too, if that is what it takes. I won’t insult you with contracts or saries. What I offer is deeper. You will belong to something bigger than the crumbling shell of partisanship.”

  His tone sharpened slightly.

  “You’ve seen the vacuum in this country. You know what it’s missing. What I offer is a role in rebuilding it—on terms that you help define.”

  There was silence after he finished. Just the low hum of the air unit and the weight of the words hanging in the converted warehouse.

  Morgan’s eyes flicked to Rina, then back to the speaker.

  Her breath was shallow, but her expression wasn’t fear. It was something far more dangerous—consideration.

  Morgan leaned forward slowly, elbows on her knees, fingers interced—her eyes fixed on the phone like it was a portal to a different world.

  Her voice, when it came, was quiet but unwavering.

  “You don’t ask for small things, do you?” she said. “You want my heart, mind, body—like you’re purchasing a nation, not a woman.”

  She paused, and for a moment, it seemed like she might shut the door right there.

  But she didn’t.

  “I spent five years drafting policy memos for men who never read them. Sat in rooms where I was told to smile more and speak less. I left that world because I got tired of offering my mind to people who only saw my face.”

  Her gaze flicked to Rina, then back to the phone.

  “Now you come along, from this… new order, this force no one can fully expin or stop. And instead of asking me to prove myself, you offer ownership. Belonging.”

  A long silence. Then she exhaled.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready to belong to anyone. But I’ve watched your movement do what Washington never could—reshape dying states into functioning societies. And I’ve seen how women—some women—are thriving under your ws.”

  Another breath.

  “So no, I won’t say yes tonight. But I’m not saying no either. You have my attention, Hezri. That’s more than any senator ever earned from me.”

  She leaned back, the faintest trace of a smirk touching her lips.

  “Convince me.”

  ***

  Morgan Yates sat quietly in the dim, te-afternoon light of her converted warehouse office. The buzz of distant Austin traffic filtered in faintly. After Rina and Sasha stepped out with nothing more than a soft goodbye, the room returned to its usual silence—except this time, it felt heavier.

  She pulled up her ptop, clicked into the CBI’s accounting software, and stared at the red figures blinking like quiet warnings:

  Office rental: 3 months overdue.

  Her apartment: 5 months unpaid.

  Staff wages: Last month still pending.

  Donor contributions: trickled to nearly zero.

  CBI—her Civic Bance Institute—was her rebellion, her post-Senate lifeline. It had survived two years on sheer willpower, grant scavenging, and personal credibility.

  Morgan’s fingers froze above the keyboard. Her old boss's voice rang in her memory:

  “You’re too clever for middle-css poverty, Morgan. Either learn to py the game, or go hide in your mother’s guest room like the rest of your kind. Or—hell—just become someone’s whore and at least enjoy the ride.”

  She had walked out the next day and built CBI from scratch.

  But now? Her pride, her principles, and her people—everything was slipping. She tapped a few keys and opened the group chat.

  Morgan:

  “Team, quick floor meeting. Conference pod. Now.”

  Ten minutes ter, the five full-time staffers gathered in the circle of chairs at the center of the office. Each brought their own story, their own spark that kept the CBI’s mission alive.

  Morgan stood in the middle of the conversation pod, arms crossed over her chest, eyes fixed on the exposed rafters above like she was still trying to convince herself it was okay to say what she was about to say.

  Her team waited—Nia’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, Eli already gripping his pen too tightly, Anais slowly crossing one leg over the other.

  Then Morgan said it. Not like a whisper, not like a confession—but like a verdict.

  “I’m selling myself. To Hezri. f 6 Commandments”

  Silence. Not a breath moved in the room.

  She continued, voice lower now, deliberate.

  “The Hezri. Supreme Leader of 6C. I’ll be working for him. Personal advisor, policy liaison, whatever he calls it. There’ll be money. Enough to pay rent. Pay all of you. Keep CBI alive and running.”

  Keiran blinked. “Like... consulting?”

  Jude dropped their phone onto their p, stunned. “Wait, the Hezri? The polygamy guy? The... dictator?”

  Nia stood up slowly, jaw clenched. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

  Morgan held her ground. Her voice didn’t shake.

  “This isn’t about ideology. It’s about survival. You think I want this? You think this is some fantasy I had pinned to my vision board?”

  Anais stayed quiet, analyzing every twitch on Morgan’s face. “So you’re going to what—sleep with him for funding?”

  Morgan’s expression didn’t flinch.

  “Yes.”

  A thick silence descended again, heavier this time.

  “He made an offer,” she added quietly. “It’s real. The only thing more real than this goddamn rent notice taped to our door. He wants me—not just my skills, but all of me. And I’m saying yes. Because otherwise, we’re dead.”

  Eli finally spoke, voice soft. “And you’re telling us this like it’s a rescue mission?”

  Morgan nodded. “Because it is. And because you all deserve to know the cost.”

  They all sat there, stunned, processing.

  Then, slowly, Nia sat back down—still fuming, but silent.

  The room fell into tense silence after Morgan’s blunt decration.

  Her voice, steady but hollow, cut through it again:

  "Let me be clear—I'm selling myself. My ideals. My body, if that’s what it takes. If Hezri wants a whore in exchange for saving this pce, then I’ll be his whore. Because this is survival now—not idealism."

  She looked at each of them in turn.

  "No more illusions. If any of you can’t stomach it, I understand. Walk away. No hard feelings. But I’m not asking permission anymore."

  Nia Dorsey stood abruptly, jaw clenched.

  “Then this is where I walk.”

  She grabbed her tote bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  “I didn’t come here to sell out to a regime that silences dissent with scripture. I won’t be part of it.”

  She didn’t look back as she left.

  Eli Navarro sighed, resting his face in his hands before rubbing his temples.

  “You’re right. This isn’t idealism anymore. It’s something else.”

  He looked up at Morgan, eyes weary.

  “I’ll stay. But I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid. I’ll take my paycheck and keep my conscience separate. Don’t expect loyalty—just work.”

  Anais Bishop looked torn, tears brimming in her eyes.

  “Morgan…”

  She swallowed hard.

  “I hate this. I hate that this is where we are. But I believe in you, even if I don’t believe in this choice.”

  She slowly sat back down.

  “I’m staying. Someone has to make sure we don’t lose all of who we are.”

  Jude Ortega gave a long, low ugh that wasn’t entirely humorous.

  “Well. At least you’re honest about it.”

  They leaned back.

  “Guess I’ll stay, too. I’ve done worse things for rent money. But if I catch even a whiff of censorship or cult tactics, I’m gone.”

  Keiran Bao looked pale, like the ground had just shifted under his feet.

  “I… I don’t know if I can handle this.”

  His voice shook.

  “But I have nowhere else to go. If you’re really sure, Ms. Yates… I’ll try. Just… please don’t become someone I don’t recognize.”

  Morgan nodded. The line had been drawn.

  “Good. Then let’s get to work.”