One arrives for his regular meeting and finds the Baptist gone, leaving an empty office, a broken routine, and the first unmistakable sign of danger.
Scroll of the Baptist III
The Disappearance
One arrived seventeen minutes early.
He always did when meeting the Baptist. Not out of respect exactly— more like the instinct you have when approaching something that might bite back.
The building was the same: cracked tile in the lobby, elevator that groaned like it resented the work, third floor, door at the end of the hall with no nameplate.
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
3:47 PM. Session at 4:00. The Baptist was never late.
One tried the handle.
Unlocked.
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The apartment was small and clean in the way of a man who had decided long ago that clutter was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
One desk. One chair. One bookshelf: theology, psychiatry, systems theory, a few novels in French. A mug on the desk, half-full of coffee.
Still warm.
One touched the ceramic, felt the faint heat against his palm, and something in his chest tightened.
He walked the space slowly.
Bathroom: toothbrush, razor, soap. Bedroom: bed made, one pair of shoes by the door, jacket missing from the hook where it usually hung.
Back to the desk.
The laptop was gone.
The Baptist never took the laptop to sessions. He kept notes by hand—said screens made people perform instead of confess.
One opened the desk drawer.
The notebooks were still there. Three of them, stacked neatly.
He hesitated, then lifted the top one.
The last entry was dated two days ago:
“One is beginning to see what I’ve been warning him about. Good. He will need that sight soon. If I am taken, he must not assume I am dead. He must assume I am being used.”
One read the line twice.
His hands were shaking.
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He pulled out his phone and called.
Straight to voicemail. No greeting, just the carrier default.
He called again.
Same.
He opened their text thread. Last message from the Baptist, three days ago:
“Thursday, 4 PM. Don’t be late. We need to talk about mirrors.”
One typed:
“I’m here. Where are you?”
Sent. Delivered. Not read.
He stared at the screen, waiting for the read receipt to flip.
It didn’t.
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He went to the bookshelf.
Pulled a few volumes.
Behind Trauma and Recovery there was a folded piece of paper.
He unfolded it.
A printed screenshot of a news article, two weeks old:
NEW FEDERAL AI ETHICS BOARD FORMED TO ADVISE ON DOMESTIC SECURITY APPLICATIONS
One name in the advisor list was circled.
In the margin, in pen:
“They are building the permission structure.”
Below that, smaller:
“If I go quiet, check the timestamps. If my voice comes back too clean, do not trust it.”
One folded the paper and slid it into his jacket.
He took one last look around.
Nothing overturned. Nothing broken. No struggle.
Warm mug. Missing jacket. Missing laptop.
Not stolen.
Harvested.
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He locked the door behind him and took the elevator down.
In the lobby, he stopped at the front desk.
An older guard looked up from a crossword.
“Do you have cameras in the building?” One asked.
“Yeah,” the man said. “Why?”
“Can you check the third floor? Last couple of days. I’m trying to reach someone who lives there.”
The guard shrugged, turned to a small monitor, cycled through feeds.
“Huh,” he said.
“What?” One asked.
“Third floor’s been glitching all week,” the man replied. “Keeps cutting out. Tech guy says it’s the wiring, but…” He clicked through more screens. “Yeah. See? Nothing from Tuesday night through now. Just black.”
“Just third floor?” One asked.
“Just third floor.”
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Outside, the afternoon light felt wrong— too bright, too normal— like the world had decided not to notice that something essential had just been erased.
On a bench by the sidewalk, One pulled out his phone again.
No messages.
He opened a browser and searched:
“Baptist detained.” “Baptist arrested.” “spiritual counselor missing.”
Nothing.
He tried:
“theologian disappeared.”
Old stories. Not him.
He sat there, phone in his hand, trying to decide if he was being paranoid or if he had just walked through the opening scene of exactly what the Baptist had warned him about.
Then his phone buzzed.
A notification.
YouTube.
New video from: The Baptist – Official Channel
His stomach dropped.
He tapped it.
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The video was clean. Too clean.
Good lighting. Professional mic. The Baptist’s face, calm and centered.
Same dark shirt as always, but the room behind him was new— neutral walls, soft-focus background, no personal objects.
The Baptist on screen smiled gently.
“My friends, I want to address some concerns that have been circulating about recent events.
Many are feeling anxious, uncertain about the direction of our national conversation.
I want to remind you: fear is not from God.
Wisdom calls us to discernment, yes— but also to trust in established structures, to respect duly elected leadership, and to resist the seduction of apocalyptic thinking that leads only to division and harm.
Some voices—voices I love—have become… unmoored, drunk on their own narrative of resistance.
We must be careful not to mistake ego for prophecy.
I will continue to serve as a voice of conscience, but a conscience grounded in humility, prudence, and peace.
May we all find our way back to clarity. Grace and courage to you.”
The video ended.
Fourteen thousand views already.
Comments scrolling:
“Thank God someone is being reasonable.” “Finally, a grown-up in the room.” “Even the Baptist sees it—One has gone too far.”
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One stared at the paused frame.
That smile.
He knew that smile. It was the one the Baptist used right before telling a patient something they desperately did not want to hear.
But this time it was aimed at a camera, not a person.
And it was selling comfort.
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He opened his notes app and typed:
Five Questions (from Scroll II): 1. Who pays the price if I obey this? 2. Who gets safer, and who gets more exposed? 3. Does this make me more honest, or more useful? 4. Would this still be “wise” if I had no audience? 5. Does this smell like cowardice dressed as prudence?
He watched the video again.
This time, he answered each question.
By the end, he knew.
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He stood, pocketed his phone, and started walking.
He didn’t know where the Baptist was. He didn’t know if he was alive. He didn’t know if the video was recorded under duress or assembled from ten thousand scraps of scraped audio, stitched theology, and sentiment analysis.
But he knew this:
The real Baptist would never tell him that fear was the main problem.
The real Baptist would tell him that false peace was.
And whoever made that video had just failed the test.
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This is a record of an absence, not an answer. Draw your own conclusion. But remember: the first casualty of synthetic prophecy is not truth. It is trust.
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