Cora remembered the first time she realized the Christian Nationals had truly emerged from the shadows. Before the Chairman, they had always been there—working behind the scenes, whispering in the ears of school boards, shaping laws in quiet back rooms. But once he took power, they no longer needed to whisper. They could finally say the things they had always thought. They could finally act.
The night was warm, heavy with humidity, the air thick with the smell of smoke and rubber. It had started with another death, another name added to a list that never seemed to end. A young Black man, Micah Greene, had been walking home when the police stopped him. A routine check, they had said. A simple misunderstanding. But when they shoved him to the ground, when they pressed their knees into his neck, when he begged for breath that never came, there was no misunderstanding.
It was murder.
The city erupted. The rage had been building for years, for decades, for centuries, and now it spilled into the streets. People marched, carried signs with his name, with all their names, demanding justice that would never come. And the Christian Nationals twisted it immediately.
He had a record, they said.
He had been arrested before, they said.
He should have complied, they said.
As if past mistakes justified execution. As if a skin tone was enough to make someone a suspect for life.
The riot that followed wasn’t planned, but it was inevitable. The police descended with shields and tear gas, driving batons into bodies already broken by a lifetime of systemic violence. Cora had seen the footage looped for days, the news anchors parroting the same script—that this wasn’t about justice, that it was chaos, that it was proof the movement had never been about fairness but about revenge. The Christian Nationals repeated it louder. Their preachers turned it into gospel.
The boy had been a criminal.
The protestors were terrorists.
And the police were the real victims.
Even as the world watched Micah die, even as his family mourned him in front of cameras, even as the streets were flooded with his name, they rewrote the story. And their followers believed it, swallowed it whole, because the lie was easier than the truth.
But it wasn’t just the police. It never was.
Weeks later, it happened again.
Cora had seen it on the news first—a group of masked men, dressed in black, draped in symbols that had been burning the world for generations. They stood on an overpass between two towns—one white, one historically Black—and they made sure everyone could see them.
They unfurled banners of hate, raised flags dripping with history, saluted to the cars below, daring someone to stop them.
And someone did.
The people of Rosewood Heights—families, teenagers, men getting off late shifts, mothers picking up their kids—they rose up. They refused to let that filth stain their home.
At first, it was words, shouts of rage, but then someone threw a can. Then another. Then a rock.
The cowards in black tried to hold their ground, but they were overwhelmed. They ran. Some barely made it back to their cars. Others were dragged down, beaten by the very people they had tried to intimidate. By the time the police arrived, the hate group was broken, scattered, some of them bleeding, whining, demanding protection from the very force they had always considered their own.
And then came the spin.
The police chief called it “unfortunate.” The news anchors framed it as “violent retaliation.” The Christian Nationals turned them into martyrs.
They had been exercising their rights, they said.
They had done nothing illegal, they said.
It was the counter-protestors who were the problem.
Cora had watched in stunned silence as the men in black, these spineless cowards, sat in interviews, their faces bruised, their pride even more so, and cried about how unfair it was. How they had only been “defending their culture.” How they had been “attacked for their beliefs.”
The people who wanted women as property.
The people who wanted LGBTQ people erased.
The people who wanted America for whites alone.
Now, they were the victims.
And the Chairman did nothing.
The police did nothing.
Because the Christian Nationals had power now. Because this was part of the plan.
They had pitched themselves as the righteous, the defenders of a nation under siege, and now, every act of violence, every hate-filled display, every moment of cruelty was spun as self-defense.
It was the perfect con.
Cora had seen it all play out. She had watched as her parents—who once would have been horrified—began to nod along to the justifications.
He was a criminal.
They shouldn’t have fought back.
Maybe if people stopped complaining, this wouldn’t happen.
They were masters of victimhood, twisting their own cruelty into righteousness, turning every act of defiance against them into an attack on their very existence.
And as Cora watched them emerge from the shadows, she realized the truth.
They had never been waiting for permission.
They had simply been waiting for the right moment to strike.
In the forgotten towns and sprawling megachurches of America’s heartland, a new kind of movement had been taking shape for decades, slow and insidious, growing in the shadows while the rest of the country dismissed them as a fringe group, a relic of the past. But they were no relic. They were a force, a movement, a machine, and by the time the Chairman took power, they had already been laying the groundwork for generations.
They called themselves Christian Nationalists, but their vision of faith had little to do with Christ. There was no message of love, no mercy, no compassion for the poor or the outcast. They were warriors, not followers. They believed America was ordained by God himself to be a Christian empire, and they were its holy soldiers. To them, democracy was a mistake. Equality was a sin. Diversity was a plague. They did not see government as a tool of the people but as a weapon of the righteous, and they intended to wield it.
For decades, they had been working in the background, placing their own into positions of power—not just in Washington, but in the places that truly mattered. School boards. City councils. State legislatures. They fought not just for seats in Congress, but for control of education, for the ability to rewrite history in their own image, to turn schools into indoctrination centers for their version of America. They pushed laws that blurred the line between church and state, making it harder for anyone to push back. They did not seek converts—they sought dominion.
Their vision was simple and terrifying: America was a Christian nation, built for Christian people, ruled by Christian law. Their version of Christianity, of course. A brutal, white, nationalist theocracy where women were property, LGBTQ people did not exist, and strong white men ruled as kings. The weak were cast aside, the sinful punished, and those who refused to bow would be erased.
And then came the Chairman.
At first, they weren’t sure about him. He was crude, corrupt, openly immoral. He did not pray. He did not read the Bible. He could barely fake his way through the simplest religious question. When asked about his faith, he deflected, laughed it off, changed the subject. Deep down, he thought they were fools. He didn’t believe a word of what they preached, but he saw their power. And they saw his.
It was a deal with the devil.
He needed their numbers, their loyalty, their blind faith. They needed a man who could win, who could shatter the system, who could pave the way for the country they had always dreamed of. He gave them the judges, the laws, the school policies they demanded. He let them rewrite the rules, and in return, they gave him their unwavering devotion.
For now.
Because for all their worship of the Chairman, the Christian Nationalists did not intend to serve him forever. He was a tool, a means to an end. And deep in the backrooms of their churches, in the halls of their secret meetings, they whispered of a future without him. A future where their America, their Holy Empire, would rise at last.
Their cults of personality merged, fusing into something larger, more potent, more terrifying than either had been alone. The Black Circle had its enforcers, its violent foot soldiers, men willing to do whatever was necessary to keep the Chairman in power. But the Christian Nationalists had something more insidious—an ideology that stretched back centuries, an unwavering belief that their mission was divine. Together, they were unstoppable.
The Black Circle had its SS. The Christian Nationalists had their crusaders, their self-proclaimed holy warriors, convinced that violence was not just necessary but righteous. To them, law and morality had no meaning outside of God’s will—their God’s will. The world had sinned too long, strayed too far. It was their duty to bring it back, even if that meant burning it all down and rebuilding it in their own twisted image.
At first, their alignment was seamless. The Black Circle carried out the Chairman’s will, enforcing his laws, silencing dissent. The Christian Nationalists cheered them on, celebrating the purges, the executions, the crackdowns as God’s judgment made manifest. They called it cleansing. They called it a return to order. They called it justice.
But it was never about the Chairman.
He was a tool, a hammer they could wield, but hammers wear down. Tools break. And the Chairman was not a man of faith.
He had never prayed. He had never spoken of salvation. He took what they offered him—their votes, their loyalty, their unquestioning devotion—and in return, he gave them everything they wanted. But he did not believe.
And deep down, they despised him for it.
For all their talk of obedience, they had never intended to serve him forever. Their America, their Holy Empire, their divine vision, could not be ruled by a man who worshiped only himself. He was useful, for now—but the moment his usefulness ended, the moment he stood in their way, they would turn on him like rabid dogs.
In their churches, behind closed doors, they whispered.
A new leader would rise, a true warrior of faith, a man who did not just use God’s name, but lived by it, ruled by it, killed by it. The Chairman had paved the way, but he was not the one.
For now, they cheered for him.
For now, they called him chosen.
But one day, they would demand a true king. And when that day came, the Chairman—for all his power, all his wealth, all his armies—would find himself nothing more than another heretic, another false prophet, another broken man cast aside for something greater.
And the world would burn in their holy war.
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