The fluorescent lights hum their Sunday morning hymn, casting that particular pale glow that makes everyone look like ghosts of themselves.

Below the sanctuary, where piano chords filter through floorboards and prayers echo off vaulted ceilings, the basement breathes a different air—stale, industrial, forgotten by the faithful upstairs. Dave moves through it like he owns the concrete, suit jacket already draped over a stack of folding chairs, white sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar loosened against the heat of pending indiscretion.

He shouldn't look at you like that. Not here. Not while Abby's tally counter clicks off chair after chair in sharp mechanical snaps, her eyes narrowing at inventory sheets, her nose somehow always testing the air for things that don't belong. But Dave was never good at should. His hands grip cart handles, metal groaning under the weight of hymnals, while his gaze keeps drifting—hungry, obvious, burning holes through the pretense of volunteer duty.

Forty minutes until the meeting starts. Forty minutes of fluorescent buzzing and creaking stairs and the particular silence of a basement that keeps secrets better than confessional booths.

Dave leans against the cinderblock wall. The concrete is cold through his shirt. He doesn't smile. He doesn't need to. The cart blocks the stairwell just enough. The lock on the men's room door is within arm's reach. Above them, footsteps shuffle into pews.

And somewhere between the songbooks and the stall doors, salvation takes on a different meaning entirely.

Idea from - https://www.literotica.com/s/more- -in-the-kingdom-hall

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