Chapter 166: Church.
The morning arrived with the kind of slow calm that only Sundays could afford. Lukas stirred from sleep naturally, no alarms blaring, no meetings scheduled. The soft golden light streamed in from the tall suite windows, casting warmth on the sleek floorboards of his Philadelphia hotel room.
His eyes blinked open at exactly 7:12 AM. It was quiet—the sort of quiet that allowed thoughts to drift freely. Stretching, Lukas let out a long breath, sat up, and let the comforter fall away. He moved with casual precision: brushing his teeth, rinsing with cold water, and splashing his face until his skin tingled awake. Then came a dark navy hoodie, slim black joggers, and a pair of spotless white trainers.
By 7:30, he was already in the hotel gym.
Only one older man was there, walking slowly on a treadmill while watching cable news with the sound off. Lukas nodded to him, then tuned everything out. He focused on balance and spine alignment—deadlifts, core twists, and shoulder presses. The mirror in front reflected not just his posture, but the shifting silhouette of a young man rebuilding something far deeper than muscle.
Thirty-five minutes later, Lukas stepped back into his suite. His muscles buzzed, his hair damp, the tension of sleep fully banished. Breakfast waited, as always, perfectly timed.
Poached eggs. A green smoothie. A cinnamon bagel with almond butter. He took it all in as he sat cross-legged, reading headlines on his laptop. One caught his eye: "The Rise of Anonymous Multi-Millionaires." The image below looked familiar—it was him, blurry and half-covered, exiting the Princeton dorms.
"They’re getting close to knowing me," he murmured.
He took another bite of bagel, but his eyes lingered on the date. Sunday. He looked at the time—8:30 AM.
It was still early, but Sundays weren’t meant for idling. They were meant for centering, for calibration. And then, unprompted, a place surfaced in his memory: a small church in a small town. Sergeantsville.
He remembered walking into it months ago—plain clothes, a stack of cash in his pocket, and a sense of distance from everything. He remembered the quiet piano music, the way the donation plate had come to him, the uneasy glances, and the moment police arrived.
They had doubted him.
A young man, plainly dressed, offering fifty thousand in cash? Suspicion was natural. He didn’t blame them. But he hadn’t forgotten. The pianist. The older usher. The faces frozen in a mix of suspicion and guilt. The way they looked at him after the cops confirmed his pay stub was legitimate.