"I don't get it," Charlize said.
Christian froze. His brow furrowed as something clicked in his mind.
Slowly, he closed his eyes and pressed his palm against the bedroom wall.
"Of course…"
He muttered under his breath, almost like a prayer. The spell hadn't taken hold — not like it should have.
Door guardians were one of his most reliable protections.
Unlike other rituals, they didn't require spiritual energy or elemental balance — just intent and connection.
In a world that had gone bone-dry on magic, that made them damn near priceless.
He'd mastered the spell long before he ended up in this twisted version of reality.
Back then, the test subjects were little more than drifting spirits — old ghosts with nothing left to haunt.
But the magic had always worked. So why not now?
The answer came like a splinter under the nail.
The power behind the guardians depended on belief. Not just his, but the homeowner's.
The ritual was a channel — a way to connect ancestral protectors to the physical world through symbols the homeowner trusted.
Without that trust, the whole thing was like trying to start a fire with wet matches.
And Charlize? She didn't trust the symbols at all.
Christian looked over at her — blonde, confused, holding a rolled-up poster like it was a sword she didn't know how to swing.
"It's not just the spell," he said, almost to himself.
"It's the connection. The language, the image, the power — it all works like a circuit. And something here is broken."
Charlize tapped him lightly with the poster.
"What are you mumbling about? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I have," he said absently. Then his eyes lit up.
"Wait. That's it."
He spun toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders, the intensity in his eyes sudden and fierce.
"It's not about magic. It's about trust. The spell doesn't care about where the symbol comes from — it cares whether you believe that symbol can protect you. That's the missing piece."
Charlize blinked. "What are you talking about?"
Christian pointed toward the two portraits on the wall.
"Do you believe those figures can protect you? Honestly."
She hesitated. "I mean… they look cool, but no. I've got no clue who they even are."
"Exactly!" he snapped, triumphant.
"For some people, these symbols are sacred. They grew up trusting them. But you? You might as well be looking at strangers. The power can't transfer if there's no emotional connection. It's not tradition—it's psychology. That's the real engine behind the magic."
Without waiting for a response, he snatched the poster from her hand.
"Sally, tell me: do you believe Rambo or the Terminator could protect your home?"
She blinked, caught between confusion and amusement.
"Rambo? And the Terminator? I mean… yeah. I grew up with them. They're icons."
Christian grinned, the kind of grin that made you wonder if he'd slept in a week.
"Perfect. We use them."
"What?"
He was already scribbling symbols on a blank sheet of paper, the kind of writing that looked half occult, half gibberish.
"Your faith is the fuel. Not culture, not language. Belief."
He handed her a sheet. "Stick this over the one on the left."
Charlize took it, frowning. "This is in English now…"
He nodded. "Of course. You're not activating the spell in a language you don't understand. This has to be yours. The words, the image — all of it has to mean something to you."
He started on the second sheet, glancing up just once.
"Let's give these walls something worth believing in."
Charlize followed his instructions, pasting the sheet onto the old portrait.
Christian looked up, satisfied.
"Now we've got a real channel. Real symbols. Real power."
"You think it'll work?" she asked, not sure if she should be impressed or call someone for help.
He lit a cigarette with fingers that trembled only slightly.
"If you believe it will… then yeah. It'll work."
"As I said, the original spell relied on symbols you don't understand. You've never heard of the figures in those portraits, so how could you subconsciously trust them to protect you?"
Christian ran a hand through his hair, his voice low, almost irritated.
"That's why the ward was barely functioning. It had no anchor."
He gestured toward the wall.
"So I rewired the whole setup. Those original portraits? They're just relays now. Power conduits. They're no longer the core of the spell — they're the pipeline. The new anchor, the one the magic's actually flowing through, is something — or someone — you believe in. That's the whole point of this kind of work. Belief is the battery."
Charlize raised an eyebrow.
"Master Exorcist," she said, pouting slightly, "you're starting to sound like a motivational speaker."
Christian smirked, unfazed by the jab.
She noticed then that the white paper over the second portrait now read: Heracles.
"Hercules? Wait — Arnold was in that old 'Hercules in New York' movie, wasn't he?"
Christian chuckled, the sound rough and dry like gravel under boots.
"You've seen that one? God, what a mess. But yeah — that's why I chose Heracles. You associate Arnold with that kind of strength. It's a mental connection. That's all I need."
He unfolded the "Terminator 2" poster and pinned it over the makeshift label and the faded portrait underneath.
At the same time, he motioned for Charlize to hang Stallone's poster across from it.
"This should do it."
Standing back, he eyed the wall like a painter admiring a half-finished mural.
"So, how do you feel now, Sally?"
Charlize tilted her head. "Honestly? It feels… more right. I mean, I still don't totally buy into the magic stuff, but those guys?"
She nodded toward the posters.
"They've got serious 'keep out or die' energy."
"Exactly," Christian muttered, tapping his temple. Then, without warning, he began to speak:
"You are one and ten thousand.
You are the moment and eternity.
You are the creator and the ruler.
You will walk this Earth as if it is yours to command."
The words rolled out like thunderclouds.
A heavy gust whipped through the room, stirring the air.
Charlize's hair caught the wind, glinting gold in the shifting light.
This time, the force was undeniable.
"That… that sounded different," she said, blinking.
Christian lit a cigarette, half-grinning behind the smoke.
"Of course it was. New guardians, new invocation. You don't talk to muscle-bound action heroes with ancient temple chants. You need something bold. Something theatrical."
"That felt more like a church prayer than a spell. Was that from the Bible?"
Christian hesitated, then shrugged.
"Close enough. Just think of it as something old with power in it."
He tapped the wall. "The protection's holding this time. Using modern symbols isn't typical — it complicates things — but it's working. I had to reverse the structure of the original spell."
"Reverse how?"
"Traditionally, guardians are posted outside doors. They're a warning: Stay out. But I set them inside your room."
Charlize's eyes narrowed, catching on.
"Wait… You're not keeping things out. You're keeping something in."
Christian smiled, genuinely impressed. "Smart girl. You're quicker than most of the priests I've worked with."
"So, it's like a magical lockdown. You're trying to trap the ghost that's haunting me — keep it from escaping while you exorcise it."
"Exactly. The second it realizes what's happening, it'll try to bail. If we don't box it in now, it'll vanish — and next time, it might not be so polite."
He turned serious.
"The prep work's done. Now it gets real."
Christian stepped closer, his eyes dark and unwavering.
"I'm going to summon Alexis again. Only this time, I'm keeping you conscious. You'll be aware — hearing, seeing, even feeling — but you won't be in control. Alexis will take over your body."
Charlize looked uneasy. "And what am I supposed to do? Just watch?"
"Not quite," Christian said.
"You remember the script I gave you?"
She nodded.
"Your job is to steer Alexis. Subtly. Nudge her toward what we want. Make her follow the script."
She raised a hand. "One question."
Christian blinked, then grinned.
"What is it, student?"
"If I'm not in control of my body, how exactly am I supposed to make her follow your script?"
Christian's smile deepened, eyes gleaming with dark humor.
"Aren't you an actress?"