The rain in Rome wasn't water—it was ash.
Ash from the warehouse that used to house the Circle's records.
Now reduced to embers.
And Grace?
She lit the match.
---
Earlier that night…
> "We hit them where it hurts," Grace said, sliding blueprints across the table.
"This is the archive. It holds every file on Project Thorne—my mother, me, all of it."
Luciano stared at her, unreadable.
> "This isn't a mission, Grace. This is suicide."
She smiled.
> "Then I hope they enjoy the afterlife."
---
In Paris
The Bloodletter—real name: Elias Crane—knelt before a child.
A girl. Eight years old.
Blindfolded. Chained. Humming.
He placed a scalpel on the floor between them.
> "What do they call you?" he asked softly.
The child tilted her head.
> "They call me the Voice."
"Because I speak in screams."
He smiled like a man hearing poetry.
Then he handed her the blade.
> "Do it. Practice on me."
The girl laughed.
A sound soaked in madness.
> "You bleed too pretty to waste."
---
In Rome
The warehouse exploded in a blossom of fire.
Files turned to cinders.
Agents screamed in their own burning names.
Grace stood on a rooftop across the street, hair wild, eyes glassy.
Luciano joined her, panting.
> "That was your plan?"
> "That was my warning."
A phone buzzed in her pocket.
One message.
"You're not the only fire she left behind."
Attached was a photo.
Grainy.
Dated.
Grace's mother. Alive.
Holding a newborn child that wasn't Grace.
---
Salomé read over Grace's shoulder.
> "Another sibling?"
Grace's throat went dry.
> "Or… another host."
---