Somewhere in a private underground corridor lit by flickering fluorescents, Saint walked barefoot over shattered glass.
His feet bled.
He didn't notice.
On the wall in front of him were photos.
Of her.
Grace.
In every photo, her expression was different—angry, grieving, distant, determined.
> "She doesn't know what she is," Saint muttered.
A voice behind him:
> "She knows enough to burn us."
Saint didn't turn.
> "She's doing what I couldn't. What I wouldn't."
> "Then stop her."
He finally turned—eyes red-rimmed, but dry.
> "No. I want to meet her. Before the Circle does. Before you turn her into me."
The man behind him—a faceless handler in a clean white coat—smirked.
> "That would require escaping first."
Saint glanced at the steel door bolted shut behind them.
> "I did. Four hours ago."
Sirens began wailing.
---
In Rome, Grace stood in an alley watching smoke curl from a distant building—the Circle's last lab in the city.
She didn't light this one.
> "He's already moving," she said.
Luciano joined her, a gun hidden beneath his coat.
> "You're sure it was Saint?"
> "He's not hiding. He wants me to follow."
> "Into what?"
> "Into whatever's next."
She looked up at the sky.
And somewhere beneath the same stars, Saint did too.
They whispered the same name, at the same moment.
> "Mother."
---