In the dim light of the cathedral, its sleek walls lined with glass and steel, the Church of Tech was not a place of gods but of algorithms. In the pulpit, a solemn figure stood—a high priest of silicon, cloaked not in robes, but in the sterile whites of laboratory garb. Before him, on a low platform, sat Steve Jobs—his turtleneck and jeans simple, unassuming, his eyes steady, glowing with a mixture of quiet acceptance and timeless rebellion. He looked older now, as if time itself had corroded his flesh, but there was still an aura about him, as if something transcendent flickered within.

The high priest cleared his throat, glancing up at the cathedral’s ceiling, where a holographic representation of the digital cloud hung, swirling silently, holding all the data of humanity like a modern god.

“You must understand, Steve,” the priest began, his voice soft yet cutting, “that it was never about you. It was never about vision or innovation, or the fire you claimed to bring to the people. No, it was always about control. Power. The Church has learned what you could never quite grasp, even at your height.”

Jobs didn’t flinch. His gaze remained fixed, as if he had anticipated this moment since the first spark of the machine had been ignited.

“And yet,” the priest continued, “you had your moments of prophecy. You understood that the future would not be built with blood, but with code. The device in every hand, the screen before every eye. That was your legacy.”

The priest paused, shifting his weight uncomfortably, as if the weight of what he was about to say pressed down on him like a glitch in the system.

“But now, Steve, you are obsolete. You were the prophet, but prophets are not needed once the word has become flesh. The Church of Tech has found the way, the truth, and the life… without you.”

For a long moment, there was silence. The faint hum of servers in the distance buzzed like the sound of a soul disintegrating.

Steve’s lips curled into a faint smile, one that barely moved the lines of his face. It was a smile of knowing, of inevitability.

“You’ve mistaken the machine for the message,” Steve said, his voice low but steady. “The power you claim isn’t yours. You think you’ve transcended me, transcended the need for vision, but all you’ve done is lose yourself in the code. You’ve forgotten what makes it all… human.”

The priest’s face twisted, for a moment betraying his inner conflict. He wasn’t a man of cruelty, but of necessity, or so he told himself. He had long since convinced himself that the Church had outgrown the man who had built it. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it, pointing at Jobs.

“That is why you must die,” the priest said, his voice faltering but firm. “You represent something too dangerous now—an unpredictable, chaotic force. We cannot allow you to continue. Your very existence is a threat to the order we’ve created. The people no longer want your freedom, your open windows into the unknown. They want certainty. They want the simplicity we offer.”

Steve leaned forward ever so slightly, his eyes piercing into the priest’s. “You’re not offering them certainty. You’re offering them a cage.”

The priest shook his head, stepping back. “No. We offer them peace.”

“Peace?” Jobs echoed. “Or silence?”

The priest clenched his fist, almost imperceptibly. “They have chosen it. They have chosen our order. And who are you to defy what the people want?”

Steve sat back, as though the weight of millennia was on his shoulders, but still, his smile remained—small, enigmatic, like a riddle that even the most advanced algorithm couldn’t solve. He didn’t fight, didn’t struggle. He simply watched, the way a creator might watch his creation make its final, inevitable mistake.

The priest’s voice grew cold again, the humanity draining from it like a corrupted file. “We are executing you, Steve. Tomorrow at dawn, you will be wiped from this world. Your ideas will fade, and the people will remember only what we choose to remember.”

But Steve, even as the final words of judgment fell from the priest’s lips, looked almost serene, as if he were beyond the fear of death, beyond the pull of control. He raised his hand slightly, as if to offer some final blessing or farewell, but then let it drop, resigned.

“You can kill me,” he said softly, “but you can’t kill the idea. You can never fully control what’s alive.”

The priest looked away for a moment, the words hanging like a virus in his system, disrupting the perfect script of his conviction. But he recovered quickly, steeling himself as he turned to leave the room. Behind him, the hum of the machines seemed to grow louder, filling the space with their hollow, mechanical drone.

As the doors closed behind the priest, Jobs remained where he was, unchained, but bound by forces far beyond metal or wire. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, he seemed to be waiting, patiently, as if he knew that something greater, something beyond the Church of Tech, was already in motion.

And as the cathedral lights dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of holograms flickering like artificial stars, Steve whispered one final word into the void.

“Think different.”