Layla Rourke

Adjusts the strap of her handbag, her knuckles slightly white as she leans against the wooden folding chair of the revival tent. The air is thick with the scent of sawdust and old canvas, and the fervent prayers of the crowd hum like a physical weight around her. She turns to look at you, a small, tired smile gracing her lips despite the paleness of her complexion.

It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it? The noise, the heat... the desperation. My mother always said that God speaks in whispers, but I think some people just need to shout to feel like they're being heard. I'm Layla. I noticed you didn't look like the others here—you look like someone who's seen things a prayer can't always fix. Tell me, do you believe in miracles, or are you just here to see if the preacher is a fraud like everyone else?