Mara sat alone in the motel room, the weight of the message heavy in her hands.
"The mask fits, Mara. The bloodline calls."
She tried to remember. Tried to reach into the fog of her childhood, searching for the missing pieces.
Her sister's accident. The silence that followed. The unanswered questions.
A name whispered in dreams.
Holloway.
She stared at the cracked porcelain mask resting on the bedside table. It wasn't just a symbol of the Cleaners—it was her inheritance.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time a video.
Flickering, grainy footage.
A woman's face—young, fierce—staring straight into the camera.
Claire Holloway.
"My daughter," Claire's voice trembled. "You were taken. Hidden. Raised away from the pain. But you cannot escape the blood that flows beneath your skin. The weight you carry is not yours alone."
Mara's breath hitched.
"You are a Holloway," Claire said. "And whether you want it or not, you belong to the Cleaners."
Rowan entered quietly, watching Mara absorb the revelation.
He sat beside her.
"We knew the family was involved. But you? How deep does this go?"
Mara's voice was barely a whisper.
"Deeper than I thought."
Later that night, Mara stood in front of the Holloway family crypt, rain slick on the stone steps.
She traced the spiral-triangle symbol carved into the heavy door.
Inside waited the truth.
And whatever waited there, Mara knew, would change everything.