The Bell vibrated with a low, guttural tone—too deep for the ear, but heavy in the ribs. It wasn’t ringing. It was gathering.

Calloway turned as Graves and Thorne crossed the threshold. Her eyes didn’t show fear—just fatigue sharpened by defiance.

Calloway (dryly): Took you long enough.

Graves (already at her wrists): Traffic was hell.

Her shackles were lined with symbols—sacramental, but wrong. Graves worked the lock with a practiced flick.

Thorne: We stopping a ritual or robbing a bank?

Graves: With these bastards, it’s the same thing.

Click.

Calloway (wincing): There’s a glyph behind the Bell. Virelli called it a “failsafe.” If the toll’s interrupted mid-resonance, the room collapses. Cave-in. Seal. Fire. Take your pick.

Thorne: Perfect.

Calloway: He’s convinced sounding it fully will open the final gate. Below Jerusalem.

Graves (quietly): The Ark…Calloway: No. What guards it.

A rumble shook the room. From the shadows beyond the altar, Virelli emerged.

Virelli (soft): You were never meant to stop this, Graves. Only witness it.

Graves (lighting a cigarette): I’m not here to witness. I’m here to shut it down.

Virelli: That’s the same thing.

Around them, the chanting swelled. The Bell vibrated harder. Dust fell.

Thorne (to Graves): We waiting for an invitation?

Graves: No. Just the right beat.

He looked at Calloway. She nodded.

Graves flung the cigarette into a pool of anointing oil.

Thorne raised the shotgun.

Calloway dove behind the pillar, fingers gripping a blade.

Graves (low, final): Let’s break the damn choir.