{The Church is silent. The air is thick with incense with the bright glow of candlelight. A wooden table stretches before his altar, its surface empty except for a single loaf of bread. Reverend Ezekiel Graves stands at the head of the table, his fingertips pressed against the crust, his voice steady.}

“Bread is the first covenant, the lifeblood of the humble, the bounty of the righteous. It is kneaded with patience, risen with faith, and broken in sacrifice. Yet not all who hunger are called to the table, and not all who reach shall be filled.”

{Graves lifts the loaf of bread in both his hands, as if weighing its worth.}

“Grimskull, you are not a man who bakes. You do not knead the dough, nor toil in the fields where the wheat is grown. You do not harvest, you do not prepare. You only take. You consume, devour, gorge yourself on what is not yours believing that because your hands are full, you are full. But a glutton is never satisfied.”

{He turns the loaf over, eyes tracing its surface like a relic of scripture.}

“There are those who break bread and there are those who steal it. You, Grimskull? You are nothing more than a starving dog at the table, snapping at scraps, licking your lips as if the meal will never end. But the Almighty does not serve the unworthy. He does not lay His feast before thieves.”

{His fingers tighten. With a sudden, deliberate motion, he breaks the loaf in half. The sharp crack of splitting crust echoes through the chamber. The Disciples do not move, their heads bowed lower.}

“You will not taste the bread of the righteous. You will not drink from the cup. You will not sit among the chosen.”

{He tosses the broken halves onto the floor, crumbs scattering like dust. He does not look down.}

“At Warzone, the feast will be set—but you will not taste it. No hands will pass you a plate. No seat will be pulled for you. No name will be called.”

{He kneels, placing a palm over the broken bread, his voice soft, yet unwavering.}

“You believe yourself powerful because you take. But power is in sacrifice and when the final bell tolls, you will not stand. You will kneel.”

{Slowly, he rises. He reaches for a chalice of deep red wine beside the table, lifting it in both hands. The candlelight begins to flicker, Graves voice carries the weight of divine certainty.}

“The table is set. The bread has been broken and when the last supper is served, only the worthy shall feast.”

{The screen fades. The final image is the torn bread at his feet, a symbol, a warning, a prophecy.}