The heavy crypt door creaked open, releasing a chill that seeped into Mara's bones.
Rowan stood behind her, flashlight cutting through the thick darkness.
Inside, stone walls were etched with faded symbols — spirals, triangles, and a network of lines that twisted like veins.
Mara's breath caught as she stepped deeper.
At the chamber's center was an altar — ancient, worn, stained dark.
Around it, relics of the past: faded photographs, torn letters, and a cracked porcelain mask — identical to the one she had seen so many times.
A voice echoed softly from the shadows.
Claire stepped forward, her face pale but resolute.
"This is where it began," she said, gesturing around the crypt. "Our family's burden. The origin of the Cleaners."
She pulled from her coat a brittle, leather-bound journal.
"This journal belonged to my mother — your grandmother."
Mara took the journal, hands trembling.
Claire continued: "She was a woman consumed by grief, desperate to stop the endless pain passed down through generations."
"She discovered an ancient ritual — one that promised to cleanse the soul of loss by transferring it into… something else."
Mara's eyes widened.
"Something else?" she asked.
Claire nodded slowly. "A machine. A crucible. A way to trap the weight of grief — to hold it, control it, and in doing so, give the Cleaners their power."
Rowan stepped forward. "So the Cleaners aren't just a cult — they're a family cursed to carry this burden, passing it down like a disease."
Claire smiled sadly. "More than cursed. Chosen. And now, Mara, it's your turn."
Mara closed the journal, heart pounding.
"I never asked for this."
Claire reached out. "None of us did. But it's in your blood. You cannot run from it."
Outside, thunder rumbled.
Mara looked at Rowan.
"Then we end this. Together."
The heavy crypt door creaked open, releasing a chill that seeped into Mara's bones.
Rowan stood behind her, flashlight cutting through the thick darkness.
Inside, stone walls were etched with faded symbols — spirals, triangles, and a network of lines that twisted like veins.
Mara's breath caught as she stepped deeper.
At the chamber's center was an altar — ancient, worn, stained dark.
Around it, relics of the past: faded photographs, torn letters, and a cracked porcelain mask — identical to the one she had seen so many times.
A voice echoed softly from the shadows.
Claire stepped forward, her face pale but resolute.
"This is where it began," she said, gesturing around the crypt. "Our family's burden. The origin of the Cleaners."
She pulled from her coat a brittle, leather-bound journal.
"This journal belonged to my mother — your grandmother."
Mara took the journal, hands trembling.
Claire continued: "She was a woman consumed by grief, desperate to stop the endless pain passed down through generations."
"She discovered an ancient ritual — one that promised to cleanse the soul of loss by transferring it into… something else."
Mara's eyes widened.
"Something else?" she asked.
Claire nodded slowly. "A machine. A crucible. A way to trap the weight of grief — to hold it, control it, and in doing so, give the Cleaners their power."
Rowan stepped forward. "So the Cleaners aren't just a cult — they're a family cursed to carry this burden, passing it down like a disease."
Claire smiled sadly. "More than cursed. Chosen. And now, Mara, it's your turn."
Mara closed the journal, heart pounding.
"I never asked for this."
Claire reached out. "None of us did. But it's in your blood. You cannot run from it."
Outside, thunder rumbled.
Mara looked at Rowan.
"Then we end this. Together."