Claire
The train station was abandoned except for a single dim lamp flickering like a dying firefly overhead. Claire shifted in her seat, gloved fingers clutching the satchel on her lap. Inside was what remained of her family's history—burnt edges of letters, bloodstained records, and one photograph no one else should ever see.
She unfolded the image again.
A girl, standing next to a woman in white robes. The Spiral carved into the wall behind them.
Claire barely recognized the girl—it was her, but younger, hollow-eyed, obedient.
A shadow moved behind the booth.
Claire was up in an instant, ducking into the corridor, heart slamming against her ribs. Her mind whispered what she didn't want to admit: They've found me again.
She slid behind a vending machine and pulled a long silver pin from her hair. Pressed it against her wrist.
If they take me again, I'll make sure there's nothing left to take.
The footsteps faded.
Not this time. Claire exhaled slowly. She wasn't that girl anymore.
Eden
The ritual had ended, but the hunger had only begun.
Eden sat in silence at the stone table as the Matron's acolytes placed two silver bowls before her. One held wine, dark and viscous. The other—still steaming—contained something else.
"This is the communion," the Matron whispered beside her. "Through blood and flesh, the Spiral awakens in you."
Eden stared at the bowl. A sliver of heart floated inside, coiled like a sleeping worm. Her stomach twisted, but the eyes around her left no room for hesitation.
The Cleaners did not ask. They offered.
And to refuse was to disappear.
The first bite slid across her tongue like ash and metal. Something inside her brain sparked. The second—she didn't remember choosing.
When she looked up, her fingers were red.
"You see?" the Matron said, smiling like a proud mother. "The blood remembers. Even if you do not."
Later, in her cell, Eden lay awake, tasting iron and smoke. Something was wrong with her eyes—she kept seeing trails of light, spiraling slowly along the ceiling cracks.
Claire
Back in her motel, Claire finally opened the sealed envelope she'd been carrying since the Holloway home was raided. The paper inside was ancient, brittle, written in thick, looping ink.
A ritual. A prayer. No—a recipe.
She read aloud in a whisper:
"For strength, the brain. For memory, the heart. For vision, the blood."
Her fingers trembled.
They weren't just a cult. They were harvesting. Devouring. Transforming.
Claire shoved the paper into the fire and watched it curl, blacken, and vanish. But it was too late.
Something was already moving. In her. In the world.
And she could feel it. The Spiral wasn't just returning.
It had never left.