Blood Prayer.

Two decades ago, five men in saffron robes entered a restaurant in Beijing. They pressed coins into the palm of a 9-year-old boy. Told him to buy sweets.
Then they locked the doors and let the fire speak.

Now he is 29. Shorn. Hollow-eyed. A disciple among murderers. He moves through the White Lotus Temple like a shadow through incense. He kneels with them. He chants with them. He breaks bread with them.

But beneath the serenity, vengeance festers.
Every night he recites a different prayer.

Not to Buddha.

To the dead.

They do not recognize the boy they erased. They do not know the man who returned to unmake them.

This is not devotion.

This is retribution.

And by sunrise, the temple floors will run red.