The helicopter was ancient.
Russian surplus.
Smelled like oil and desperation.
Margaret piloted.
Hands steady on controls that shook.
Scarlett sat in the back.
Armed.
Silent.
Watching the black water below.
Waiting for the submarine to surface.
Or for Margaret to betray her.
Both seemed likely.
"You don't trust me," Margaret said.
Not a question.
"Should I?"
"I gave you my daughter's killer."
"You gave me information. Not trust."
Margaret laughed.
Short.
Bitter.
"Claire said the same thing. Before the fire. Before I—" She stopped.
Corrected.
"Before I chose wrong."
"Before you burned her alive."
"Yes." No denial.
No excuse.
"Before I burned her alive."
Scarlett calculated.
Odds.
Angles.
The gun in her hand versus the knife in Margaret's boot.
Visible.
Obvious.
A test?
Or a trap?
"Why help me now?" she asked.
"Because Asher took everything."
"Revenge?"
"Justice." Margaret looked back.
One eye on the controls.
One on Scarlett.
"Same thing?"
"Different verdicts."
The helicopter banked.
Hard.
Margaret cursed.
Struggled.
"Radar contact. Three miles. Submarine. Surfacing."
Scarlett leaned forward.
Saw nothing.
Black water.
Black sky.
Black intent.
"How do we board?"
"We don't." Margaret smiled.
The old smile.
The predator smile.
"You do. Alone."
She pressed a button.
The helicopter door opened.
Wind screamed.
Salt blinded.
Below, a dark shape emerged.
The submarine.
Conning tower breaking surface.
Hatch opening.
Light inside.
"Rappel line," Margaret shouted.
Over the noise.
Over the wind.
"Thirty seconds. Down. Inside. Or drown."
"And you?"
"I keep the engine running." Margaret's hand found her knife.
Not threatening.
Present.
"If you're not back in twenty minutes, I leave."
"With Asher?"
"With my life." She held out the line.
Waiting.
"Choose, Scarlett Vance. Trust me. Or let them die."
Scarlett looked at the line.
At the water.
At the submarine where everyone she loved waited.
Or died.
She grabbed the line.
Rappelled.
Into the dark.
Into the war.
Into Margaret's trap.
Or her only chance.
---
The conning tower was slick with spray.
Scarlett's boots slipped.
Her hands gripped.
The hatch yawned below.
Light.
Sound.
Movement.
She dropped the last ten feet.
Landed hard.
Rolled.
Gun up.
Knife ready.
The interior was narrow.
Steel corridors.
Red lighting.
Emergency power.
Or stealth mode.
She moved.
Silent.
Trained.
Deadly.
First compartment.
Empty.
Bunks.
Unmade.
Recent.
Second compartment.
Galley.
Coffee still warm.
Sandwich half-eaten.
Third compartment.
The brig.
Steel bars.
Three figures.
Rosa.
Elena.
One other.
Not Jules.
Not Dom.
A girl.
Young.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Red hair.
Green eyes.
Scarlett's face.
Not Scarlett.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The girl looked up.
Smiled.
Cold.
Calculated.
Familiar.
"I'm the original," she said.
"You're the copy."
---
The words hit like depth charges.
Scarlett's vision narrowed.
Guns forgotten.
Knife forgotten.
The girl.
Her face.
Her eyes.
Her smile.
"Impossible."
"Improbable." The girl stood.
Moved to the bars.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to see the differences.
The scar she didn't have.
The age she hadn't reached.
The cruelty she hadn't learned.
"I'm Claire," the girl said.
"Claire Marchetti. Vincent's first. Margaret's daughter. The one who burned."
"But you died."
"I escaped." Claire's smile widened.
"With help. With planning. With the same skills Vincent taught you. The same skills he taught me first."
"Then who—"
"Who burned?" Claire laughed.
Soft.
Musical.
Deadly.
"Margaret's maid. Similar build. Similar hair. Drugged. Unconscious. Dressed in my clothes." She touched the bars.
Casual.
Confident.
"Margaret saw what I wanted her to see. What she expected to see. A daughter who defied her. Who needed punishment. Who needed to burn."
"Why?"
"Why disappear?" Claire stepped back.
Sat on her bunk.
Crossed her legs.
The movement was Scarlett's.
The posture was Scarlett's.
Everything was Scarlett's.
Or Scarlett was everything Claire made.
"Because I found the truth. About Vincent. About the program. About us."
"Us?"
"The aces. The wild cards. The daughters he built." Claire's eyes found hers.
Green meeting green.
Past meeting future.
"You're not the seventh, Scarlett. You're the twelfth. And I'm not the first. I'm the third. The only one who escaped. The only one who saw what we really are."
Scarlett's hand found the bars.
Cold.
Solid.
Real.
"What are we?"
"Products." Claire stood.
Moved closer.
Close enough to whisper.
"Vincent didn't find us. He made us. Genetically. In labs. The Hollow was never a slum. It was a factory. We were manufactured. Trained. Sold."
"Lie."
"Truth." Claire reached through the bars.
Touched Scarlett's face.
Gentle.
Intimate.
Horrifying.
"Look at us. Same face. Same skills. Same everything. Coincidence? Or design?"
Scarlett pulled back.
Gun rising.
Aiming.
"Prove it."
"Ask Margaret." Claire smiled.
"Ask her why she really burned me. Not for betrayal. For discovery. I found the lab. The files. The other eleven. The ones who failed. The ones who died. The ones who—" She stopped.
Looked past Scarlett.
Down the corridor.
"He's coming."
"Asher?"
"Worse." Claire's confidence cracked.
Fear showing.
Real.
Raw.
"The buyer. The one Asher's selling us to. He collects us. Studies us. Dissects us."
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Multiple.
Approaching.
"Free us," Claire hissed.
"Now. Or we all become specimens."
Scarlett moved.
Shot the lock.
Once.
Twice.
Sparks.
Failure.
"Reinforced," Rosa said.
First words.
Gravel voice.
Bruised face.
"Need the key. Captain's quarters. Stern."
"Elena?"
"Injured. Not dead." Rosa's eyes met hers.
Hard.
Proud.
"Go. We'll hold."
"I don't leave people."
"You don't save them either. Not if you're dead." Rosa grabbed the bars.
Shook them.
Useless.
Fierce.
"Get the key. End this. Come back. Or don't. But decide now."
The footsteps closer.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Scarlett decided.
She ran.
Not away.
Toward.
Toward the stern.
Toward the captain.
Toward the truth that would destroy everything.
Or save it.
---
The captain's quarters were locked.
Biometric.
Retinal.
Scarlett didn't hesitate.
She grabbed the corpse from the corridor.
Asher's work.
Throat cut.
Professional.
Lifted the body.
Pressed the dead eye to the scanner.
Click.
Access granted.
The room was small.
Efficient.
Military.
And occupied.
Asher Blackwood sat at the desk.
Platinum hair.
Ice eyes.
Blood on his hands.
Not his.
"Scarlett." He smiled.
Broken.
Beautiful.
"I knew you'd come."
"Where's the key?"
"Key?" He laughed.
Soft.
Mad.
"To the brig? To your sisters? To your own origin story?"
"Now."
"Or what? You'll shoot me?" Asher stood.
Spread his arms.
Vulnerable.
Inviting.
"You already tried. At the tower. You failed. You'll fail again."
"Different gun."
"Same hesitation."
He was right.
Scarlett felt it.
The pull.
The memory.
The fire that wasn't fire.
The girl who wasn't dead.
"Claire's alive," she said.
Watching his face.
Reading.
Calculating.
Asher's smile flickered.
Cracked.
Died.
"Impossible."
"Improbable." Scarlett stepped closer.
Gun steady.
"She's in the brig. With Rosa. With Elena. With the truth about what we are."
"What you are," Asher corrected.
But his voice shook.
His hands shook.
"She was dead. I saw the fire. I saw—"
"You saw what she wanted you to see. What Margaret wanted you to see." Scarlett was close now.
Close enough to smell his fear.
His grief.
His love.
The real one.
The dead one.
"Claire played you. Played everyone. Just like Vincent taught her."
Asher collapsed.
Into the chair.
Into himself.
Into the boy who watched his love burn.
"Why?" he whispered.
"Why come back? Why hide? Why let me think—"
"Because you were the test," a voice said.
From the doorway.
From the shadows.
From the past.
Vincent Marchetti stepped into the light.
Alive.
Smiling.
Holding the key.
---
The bullet should have killed him.
Scarlett saw the hole.
Forehead.
Small.
Precise.
But he stood.
Breathed.
Spoke.
"Prosthetics," Vincent said.
Tapping his skull.
"Hollywood quality. The blood was real. The death was performance. The debt was motivation."
"For what?"
"For this." He held up the key.
Then tossed it.
Scarlett caught it.
Automatic.
Trained.
"For you to become what I built. What I invested. What I—"
"Manufactured," Scarlett finished.
The word poison.
The word truth.
"Claire told me. The lab. The program. The twelve of us."
"Eleven," Vincent corrected.
"Claire doesn't count. She escaped. She failed. She—"
"She survived." Scarlett raised the gun.
Aimed at his head.
The real one.
Or another fake.
"Like I'm going to survive. Like I'm going to end this."
"End what?" Vincent smiled.
The old smile.
The teacher smile.
The monster smile.
"The game? The family? The only purpose you ever had?"
"I'll make a new purpose."
"How?" He stepped closer.
Close enough to touch the gun barrel.
Close enough to die.
"By killing me? By freeing your sisters? By exposing the truth?" He laughed.
Warm.
Proud.
Horrifying.
"That's not ending the game, Scarlett. That's winning it. That's becoming the house. That's—"
Scarlett shot him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Chest.
Head.
Throat.
He fell.
Finally.
Actually.
Dead.
Or as dead as he could be.
She didn't check.
Didn't care.
Grabbed the key.
Ran.
Toward the brig.
Toward the truth.
Toward the family she never chose.
But would save.
Or die trying.
---
The key worked.
The lock opened.
Rosa emerged first.
Fighting stance.
Ready.
Elena second.
Injured.
Armed.
Determined.
Claire last.
Slow.
Calculating.
Watching.
"Vincent?" she asked.
"Dead."
"Finally." No grief.
No surprise.
"Now what?"
Scarlett looked at them.
Her sisters.
Her blood.
Her design.
"Now we surface. We escape. We burn the lab. The files. The program. Everything that made us."
"And then?"
"And then we choose." Scarlett met Claire's eyes.
Green to green.
Original to copy.
Monster to monster.
"We choose what we become. Not what they built. Not what they wanted. Us."
The submarine shuddered.
Alarms blared.
Depth charges.
Margaret.
Or the buyer.
Or the world catching up.
"Move," Rosa ordered.
"Now. Or we drown."
They ran.
Through corridors.
Past Vincent's body.
Past Asher's grief.
Past everything that made them.
Toward the hatch.
Toward the light.
Toward the surface.
Scarlett climbed first.
Burst into air.
Cold.
Salt.
Life.
The helicopter waited.
Margaret at the controls.
Face unreadable.
Scarlett raised her gun.
Aimed.
"Claire's alive," she shouted.
Over the wind.
Over the rotors.
"Your daughter. Your heir. Your mistake."
Margaret's hands froze.
Her eyes found Claire.
Emerging from the hatch.
Smiling.
Waving.
Alive.
"Choose," Scarlett said.
"Help us escape. Or watch her die. Again. For real. This time."
Margaret chose.
The helicopter descended.
They climbed.
All of them.
Sisters.
Enemies.
Family.
The submarine sank below them.
Taking Vincent.
Taking Asher.
Taking the past.
Or not.
Scarlett didn't look back.
She looked forward.
At the horizon.
At the new world.
At the choice she would make.
Not Vincent's choice.
Not Margaret's.
Hers.
The helicopter rose.
Into the dawn.
Into the future.
Into the final game.
Scarlett Vance held the broken crown.
Felt its edges.
Felt its weight.
Felt its promise.
The house always wins.
Until she walks in.
And burns it down.