The rain had not stopped for days.
Mara and Rowan drove through back roads, following whispers and fragments—each lead pulling them deeper into the network's vast, poisonous roots.
"We're looking for the nodes," Rowan said. "The local cells. The Cleaners who carry out the rituals."
Mara nodded, eyes sharp.
Their first stop was a nondescript town on the outskirts of the state: Greystone.
There, a series of recent disappearances mimicked Durnville's chilling pattern.
The local police chief was reluctant to talk.
"Nothing official," he said with a tight smile. "But we're watching."
Rowan noticed a symbol carved faintly into the chief's desk—a spiral inside a triangle.
Mara caught it too.
"They're already here," she whispered.
At night, Mara dreamed of a woman's voice calling her name.
"You belong to us…"
She woke, heart pounding, to the sound of tapping on her hotel window.
Outside, a figure in a cracked porcelain mask stood motionless.
Mara's breath froze.
Rowan grabbed his phone.
"She's watching you," he said grimly.
The next morning, they found a hidden room beneath an abandoned factory.
Walls covered in photos: missing people, ritual sites, and the faces of the Cleaners.
At the center, a mural—painted in dried blood—depicted a woman wearing the same porcelain mask Mara had seen.
Underneath, a phrase scrawled:
"The mother cleans the roots before the tree can fall."
Rowan's voice was low.
"That's Claire's mother. The real mastermind."
Mara swallowed hard.
"This network isn't just a cult. It's a family business."
Suddenly, their phones buzzed simultaneously.
A single message from an unknown number:
"The mask fits, Mara. The bloodline calls."
Mara stared at the screen.
Her world shifted.
Because buried deep in her past, hidden beneath years of forgotten memories, was a truth she wasn't ready to face.
She was connected.
To them.
To the Cleaners.