Christian wasn't particularly bothered by Charlize's confusion. He'd seen this kind of thing a hundred times.
Cultural assumptions, historical blind spots—hell, the '90s were practically built on them.
Back then, most folks lumped anything vaguely Eastern into one box and slapped a label on it. t.
Still, misunderstandings had a way of escalating into danger if left unchecked.
"The symbols on these three sheets," he said, holding them up under the lamplight, "all say the same thing. A name—'Sentinel.'"
"'Sentinel?'" Charlize repeated, squinting at the faded ink.
Christian gave a slow nod.
"Not something you'll find in your average dictionary. It's one of the oldest titles from a forgotten faith—someone who guards thresholds. Doorways, mostly. Between this world and whatever's clawing at it from the other side."
Charlize tilted her head, clearly trying to piece it together.
"In the old days," he continued, "folks didn't trust locks or prayers. They carved the Sentinel's mark into ashwood and nailed it to their doors. It was their way of saying: 'Keep walking, devil. You're not welcome here."
"Okay… I think I follow."
"But you're wondering why the same name's written three different ways."
She nodded.
Christian smirked, took a breath, and changed tack.
"Tell me something. Can you sing The Star-Spangled Banner?"
"The U.S. anthem?" she asked.
"I mean… not really. I know of it, but I don't know all the words."
Christian raised an eyebrow. "You're in Hollywood."
"I'm South African."
Fair point. He gave a tired chuckle. "Alright. What about Shakespeare? You read any of the originals?"
"A few," she said, voice small now.
He didn't press. Just gave a dry smile and kept moving.
"Hard stuff, right? Even for English speakers. Archaic phrasing, weird cadence. Not exactly bedtime reading."
"Definitely not," she admitted.
"Well, language evolves. What once flowed like poetry now feels like decoding a secret message. Same thing with these symbols."
He gestured at the sheets.
"Each one's from a different era. Modern. Classical. And this last one… this one's ancient. Practically dead. A language only used in rites best left forgotten."
He didn't say how he'd learned it. Some things were better left in the dark.
Christian walked to the wall and pinned the sheets there, one atop the other, the past layering over itself like sediment.
Then, he reached for the last piece—a painting. Not some museum piece, but the kind of thing you'd find gathering dust in a secondhand curio shop.
It showed a grim-faced warrior in cracked armor, holding a jagged staff that looked more like a relic than a weapon.
Charlize recognized it. She'd picked it up herself, thinking it might impress Christian or at least get his attention.
At the time, he'd just muttered something about "old ghosts" and walked off.
Now, he held the painting with more reverence.
"This," he said, pinning it over the three pages, "is the Sentinel. One of the first."
The warrior's hollow eyes seemed to stare back through the paper, as if daring whatever was on the other side to try its luck.
Christian stepped back, lit a cigarette, and took a drag. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.
"People used to believe the world was held together by names. By oaths. By the ones willing to stand between light and dark. They weren't wrong."
Charlize said nothing. She just stared at the image, something uneasy flickering behind her eyes.
Christian exhaled, the ember at the tip of his cigarette glowing faintly in the gloom.
"Time has a way of forgetting its best defenders," he said.
"But the shadows? They remember."
"He was a warlord," Christian said, lifting the painting between two fingers, "and one of the most iconic warlords in Western folklore. If we were talking pop culture, Sentinel Prime would be Elvis. This guy? He's your Michael Jackson."
Charlize arched a brow. "So… more modern? More relatable than that Sentinel you mentioned before?"
Christian gave a slow nod. The metaphor had landed.
"Exactly. The first one was a symbol—a myth, really. This guy? Flesh and blood. A real bastard who lived and died swinging a sword. The stories say he guarded the gates of an empire when nightmares started bleeding into the waking world."
"But he was a general, right? Why turn him into a supernatural protector?"
Christian scratched his nose, buying a second to choose the version of the story that wouldn't send her running for the hills.
"Well, he wasn't born into it. Unlike the old wardens—those were pure myth—this guy was legit. Served under a war-obsessed king, the kind of man who built his throne out of other people's bones. Think Caesar with a drinking problem. Or Napoleon if he saw ghosts."
Charlize gave him a skeptical look. Christian smirked.
"After years of bloodshed, the king started cracking. Said he couldn't sleep. Claimed the spirits of the dead were clawing at him in his dreams. His solution? Post two of his fiercest generals outside his chambers while he slept."
She folded her arms. "And that worked?"
"Apparently. No more screaming in the night. No more waking up soaked in sweat. Word got out, and the people started pinning paintings of those generals to their doors. Figured if it kept the king safe, it'd do the same for them."
"So that's how he became a guardian."
"Yeah. And even today, there are homes with his likeness nailed to the threshold. Superstition? Maybe. But fear's a hell of a motivator."
Charlize exhaled, intrigued despite herself.
"So by putting up his portrait, you're hoping he'll keep whatever's out there at bay?"
"That's the idea," Christian said, grabbing another piece of parchment.
"Though I've made a few… adjustments."
Charlize narrowed her eyes. "You sure seem to know a lot about this stuff. Where'd you learn it?"
Christian hesitated, then gave her a crooked grin.
"Taught by the best."
"In school?"
"In a morgue," he replied dryly. "Long story."
She blinked. "Wait—seriously?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he nodded toward the opposite wall.
"That poster with the motorcycle and shotgun. Is that the Terminator?"
"Yeah. T-800."
"If we're doing this right, I need a matched set. Guardians work in pairs. Take that one down."
Without protest, she crossed the room and peeled the poster off. Christian stepped in, replacing it with a fresh set of pages, each marked with sharp, arcane script that looked more etched than written. Then, he held up another painting. This one showed a dark-faced warrior with eyes like deep pits.
"This is the other half," he said.
"The second general. Where one guards the mind, the other guards the threshold."
Charlize watched as he pressed the image to the wall. Now both sides of the room bore silent sentinels, looming like watchful phantoms.
"In old rites," Christian said, "gates had left and right keepers. Balance mattered. Without a pair, the protection was incomplete. This guy's the shadow to the first's flame."
Satisfied with the symmetry, he took a slow breath and brought his fingers together in a fluid, deliberate motion.
A subtle pressure shifted in the room, like static building before a storm. Then, in a whisper like dry leaves, he spoke:
"Let the old guard fall, and the new keep watch."
A soft gust rolled through the space. Curtains fluttered. Candles danced. Then silence returned.
Charlize stared at him. "Did you just cast a spell?"
"Sort of. Just a verse. You could call it a charm. Or an invocation. Or poetry, depending on who's listening."
"Poetry?" she echoed, half-laughing.
"Like, flowery stuff?"
"Most spells are just words arranged with intent," he said.
"It's not about the language—it's about the weight behind it. Some people chant in Latin. Some mutter in Enochian. Me? I go with what sticks."
Charlize nodded slowly. "Still sounded cryptic. Like the Bible verses those movie priests scream while tossing holy water."
Christian cracked a smile.
"Yeah, but I don't need a collar or a crucifix to kick something back into the dark. Just need the right words—and something worth protecting."