"You're not her daughter.
You're her host."
The words echoed in Grace's mind like gunshots in a chapel.
She stood frozen in the abandoned church, the vial cold in her hand, Salomé's eyes locked on her face—not cruel, but certain.
---
> "What the hell does that mean?" Grace's voice cracked.
"Tell me. Now."
Salomé walked slowly, reverently, toward the crumbling stained glass window behind the altar.
> "Project Thorne was a resurrection initiative. Genetic consciousness transfer. Your mother—Caterina—she volunteered… to die before death claimed her."
> "Bullshit."
> "Is it?" Salomé turned. "Then explain your memory lapses. Your scars that never match the wounds. Your immunity to the poison they laced in your wine."
Grace's breath caught.
She had blacked out during the Dubai mission.
She had survived the cyanide in Milan.
---
Salomé reached into her coat and pulled out a photo.
Black and white.
A lab.
Two women.
Identical.
One was clearly Grace.
The other…
> "She wasn't just your mother. She was your template."
Grace dropped the vial.
Glass shattered.
Red vapor hissed into the air.
---
Outside, a black van skidded to a stop.
Men in suits and masks leaped out, weapons drawn.
> "Circle agents," Salomé hissed.
"You led them here?"
> "I thought you did!"
Gunfire ripped through the church doors.
The piano exploded in splinters.
Grace grabbed Salomé's wrist and dove behind the altar.
> "I don't trust you," she growled.
> "Good," Salomé said, cocking her pistol.
"That means you might survive."
---
Together, they fought side by side—fluid, violent, ruthless.
Grace moved like instinct.
Salomé moved like prophecy.
And in the chaos, Grace heard her own voice whispering in her head—
> "This is not your body, Grace."
> "It never was."