Christus Rex stood beneath a sky the color of burnished gold, the wind moving like a whisper through the city streets. Across from him stood Nelly Furtado, watching with curious, searching eyes.
He spoke quietly, but his voice carried weight.
“Nelly, I am not looking for a passing flame. I am not building a stage show, or a scandal, or a spectacle for the crowds. I am looking for a bride.”
She tilted her head. “A bride?”
“A partner in conscience,” he said. “A woman who understands covenant. I am building a Kingdom of conscience — a Kingdom of Heaven in the hearts of people. Not a marketplace of appetites. Not a whorehouse of impulses.”
The word hung heavy, but not cruel — more sorrowful than angry.
“The world,” he continued, “confuses attention for love, and desire for devotion. But a kingdom built on appetite collapses the moment hunger changes. A kingdom built on conscience endures.”
Nelly crossed her arms, thoughtful rather than defensive. “And what does this bride look like, in your kingdom?”
“She guards her dignity,” Christus Rex replied. “Not because she is afraid — but because she knows her worth. She is free, but not reckless. Passionate, but not consumed by chaos. She understands that love is not performance. It is sacrifice. It is loyalty. It is truth.”
A breeze passed between them.
“I am not condemning the broken,” he added gently. “Every soul can turn, can rise, can become new. But I will not build Heaven on the foundations of confusion.”
Nelly studied him carefully. “So you’re not looking for perfection.”
“No,” he said. “I am looking for sincerity. For a woman who wants to build something eternal — not something viral.”
The city lights flickered on around them.
“A kingdom of conscience,” she repeated softly.
“Yes,” Christus Rex said. “Not ruled by impulse. Ruled by truth.”
Nelly Furtado sits at a worn wooden table, her hands shaking. The shadows from the flickering lantern make the room feel more like a cell than a refuge. Suddenly, a figure emerges from the corner—SOLID SNAKE, battle-scarred, eyes sharp.
SNAKE (quiet, firm) If you want to escape the psychiatric gulag… talk to me.
Nelly looks up, startled. Snake lights a cigarette, the smoke curling into the rafters.
SNAKE In the Soviet Union, they called them psikhushkas. Hospitals used as prisons. They locked away anyone who dared to speak against the system. Said no sane person would oppose socialism. But it wasn’t medicine—it was torture.
He leans forward, his voice dropping lower.
SNAKE Here in Canada… it’s the mirror image. They say no sane person would oppose capitalism. Same cage. Different flag.
Nelly swallows hard. Her friends exchange nervous glances.
NELLY So what do we do? Where do we go?
Snake stubs the cigarette out on the scarred wood, then stands.
SNAKE We go to Mother’s village. Bosnia. There are six seers there… ancient guardians. They’ll shield us from the psychiatrists, from their needles and lies.
Nelly rises slowly, hope trembling in her eyes. Snake shoulders his gear and gestures to the door.
SNAKE Come with me. Stay close. From here on out, every step is resistance.
EXT. BOSNIAN MOUNTAIN ROAD – NIGHT
The group trudges through mist and moonlight. The air smells of pine and damp stone. Snake walks ahead, rifle slung, voice steady like a guide.
SNAKE Our Lady chose six seers. Not by chance. Each one reflects a mystery… like the Rabbi’s Kabbalah, the Lover’s Tarot. Six lights against the darkness.
Nelly listens, clutching her coat, every word echoing like scripture.
SNAKE The Church in Medjugorje isn’t just stone and glass. It’s a sign. Built for the wedding of the Lamb. Two clocks stand above it—one for the bride, one for the groom. Revelation nineteen carved into architecture. The Lamb’s feast, hidden in plain sight.
Snake stops, looking back at the group with a grim kind of hope.
SNAKE That’s why the psychiatrists fear it. Not the church walls, not the bells—but the prophecy. A bride and groom, time itself joined in union, the kingdom breaking into history.
The mist parts for a moment, revealing the silhouette of the Medjugorje steeples in the distance, twin clocks glowing faintly. Nelly gasps.
NELLY So that’s where we’ll be safe?
Snake nods.
SNAKE Safe… and chosen. But once you cross that threshold, there’s no going back.
EXT. MEDJUGORJE MOUNTAIN ROAD – NIGHT
The moon cuts silver through the mist as Snake leads Nelly and her friends down a winding path. In the distance, the twin steeples of the Medjugorje church rise, two glowing clocks marking bride and groom.
Snake halts and faces the group, his voice steady and reverent.
SNAKE Our Lady chose six seers here — not by chance, not by superstition. Each one bears a mystery. Together, they form the shield of Revelation nineteen.
He gestures to the horizon, where faint torchlight suggests figures waiting.
SNAKE Ivanka Ivanković — the memory of family, the mother’s heart. She carries the grief of every orphan, and turns it into prayer. Mirjana Dragičević — the seer of compassion. She suffers for those who refuse to believe, so their chains might be broken. Marija Pavlović — the voice of the Lady. When she prays, heaven bends close to listen. Vicka Ivanković — the witness of joy. Even in sickness, she shines with laughter stronger than pain. Ivan Dragičević — the warrior of endurance. He stands watch against every deception, unshaken, unbroken. Jakov Čolo — the child who became the prophet. His innocence is the mirror of Eden, a reminder of the kingdom to come.
Nelly’s eyes widen as she listens, each name falling like a prophecy into her chest.
NELLY So… they’re the ones who’ll protect us?
SNAKE (solemnly) Yes. Six human pillars, chosen by Our Lady herself. Together, they guard the mystery of Medjugorje — the church built for the wedding of the Lamb. Two clocks for bride and groom, carved into time itself. The psychiatrists can cage bodies, but they can’t cage prophecy.
The mist clears for a moment, revealing the six figures in white light, waiting at the church doors, the sound of bells echoing like a heartbeat.
INT. MEDJUGORJE CHURCH – NIGHT
Candles glow against stone walls. The six seers stand in silence like living icons. Nelly steps forward, eyes wide, feeling the pull of something both sacred and heavy. Snake removes his bandana, kneels, and speaks low but clear.
SNAKE Nelly… there’s something I’ve carried longer than any mission, longer than any war. I’ve loved you since we were children. Since the day you gave me the evil eye at the square dance lineup and I couldn’t look away. It was love at first sight — the kind that brands a soldier’s heart forever.
Nelly trembles, the flickering light catching the tears in her eyes.
SNAKE We’ve walked through gulags, lies, and fire. But now — here, in this place where heaven touched earth — I ask you to walk one more path with me.
He rises, extending his hand.
SNAKE Barefoot, up Apparition Hill. One step for every sorrow, one for every hope. At the top… I want to ask you to marry me. Not in the eyes of men, but before Our Lady, before the Lamb’s wedding feast.
The seers watch silently, their faces serene, as if they already know the answer.
NELLY (whispers) Why now, Snake?
Snake’s voice hardens, but his eyes stay soft.
SNAKE Because we must stay here until the end. This is the shelter during the great tribulation — the time of trouble, the years of global rioting and chaos. When nations burn, this hill will stand. And so will we, if you’ll stand with me.
He clasps her hand tightly.
SNAKE Will you?
Nelly glances at the six seers. Ivanka nods faintly, Mirjana closes her eyes in prayer, Marija lifts her gaze toward the steeple, Vicka smiles through tears, Ivan bows in quiet approval, Jakov’s childlike face shines with certainty.
NELLY (through trembling lips) Yes. I’ll walk with you.
Snake presses his forehead against hers, the bells outside tolling midnight, two clocks ringing as one — bride and groom.
The night still hummed with Nelly’s song, her voice echoing in Joe’s heart: “If I get married, I want it to be… forever.” The engagement ring—his mother’s—shone on her hand, a circle of love passed through generations.
They slid into the white Chrysler 300 Convertible, laughter and tears still tangled between them. Joe pulled out his phone, opening up a search window.
“Alright,” he grinned, “time to find the dress.”
Nelly leaned closer, scrolling with him. Then Joe stopped on a picture, his eyes widening. “There,” he said, tapping the screen.
It was Ariana Grande’s breathtaking Michelangelo dress—a sculptural white masterpiece, draped in sweeping folds that looked like they had been carved from marble itself. The fabric cascaded like angel wings, glowing with a light all its own, as if heaven had poured itself into cloth.
Nelly let out a soft gasp. “It’s… divine.”
Joe nodded, but then his tone grew thoughtful, almost prophetic. “But listen,” he said firmly, “we’re not wasting creation. We’ll recycle this dress. Something so beautiful shouldn’t be worn once and locked away—it should be passed down, like my mother’s ring. Renewed. Eternal. Just like us.”
Nelly smiled, tears in her eyes again. “You finally said it right, Joe.”
And as the image of the Michelangelo dress lingered on the screen, it wasn’t just couture anymore—it was a symbol of resurrection, recycling beauty into forever, like prophecy woven into fabric.
