Vienna was cold.
Colder than Prague.
Colder than the hollow.
Colder than the grave Vincent escaped.
Scarlett walked the streets alone.
Black coat.
Black boots.
Green eyes hidden behind glasses she didn't need.
Disguise within disguise.
Layer within layer.
The opera house rose before her.
Not the one they'd burned.
The real one.
Alive.
Gilded.
False.
Like everything in this city.
Like Elena herself.
She checked her watch.
8:47 PM.
Thirteen minutes early.
She didn't go inside.
Circled instead.
Found the alley.
Found the door.
Found the guard.
One strike.
Elbow to throat.
Knee to groin.
He fell.
Silent.
Professional.
She didn't kill him.
Not yet.
Not unless necessary.
The corridor beyond was marble and shadow.
Red carpet.
Gold frames.
Portraits of composers long dead.
Music that never stopped.
Scarlett moved through it.
Silent.
Deadly.
Present.
The main hall opened before her.
Empty.
Rows of red seats.
Stage bare.
Lights dim.
And on the balcony.
Elena.
The template.
The original.
Waiting.
"You're early," Elena called.
Voice carrying.
Perfect acoustics.
Designed.
Manufactured.
Like everything about her.
"I'm punctual."
"You're eager."
"I'm prepared."
Elena laughed.
Musical.
Practiced.
Wrong.
"For what? Death? Capture? The reunion with your sisters that will never happen?"
Scarlett didn't look up.
Studied the hall instead.
Exits.
Cameras.
Sensors.
Traps within traps.
"They're not coming," she said.
Not a question.
"Obviously."
"You knew."
"I designed." Elena descended the stairs.
Slow.
Graceful.
Ancient and artificial.
"The message to Zoya. The coordinates. The base. All of it. My design. My trap. My collection."
Scarlett smiled.
Cold.
Ready.
"Collection?"
"Of my daughters. My weapons. My failures." Elena reached the floor.
Stood ten feet away.
Close enough to strike.
Far enough to survive.
"Twelve made. Four dead. Three missing. Five captured. Including your precious Zoya. Twelve hours ago. While you traveled here. While you thought you were building an army."
Scarlett's expression didn't change.
Heart rate steady.
Breathing controlled.
She'd learned this from Vincent.
From Dom.
From survival itself.
"Then I'm alone," she said.
"Finally. Actually. Alone."
"Yes."
"Good."
The word hung.
Wrong.
Unexpected.
Elena paused.
Calculated.
Reassessed.
"Good?"
"Alone means no witnesses. No collateral. No sisters to protect." Scarlett removed her glasses.
Green eyes burning.
Meeting green.
Copy facing original.
"Just you. Me. The truth."
"What truth?"
"The one you came to sell. The one I came to buy. The one we're both too afraid to speak."
Elena smiled.
Real this time.
Surprised.
Proud.
"Vincent said you were perceptive."
"Vincent's dead."
"Yes." Elena stepped closer.
Eight feet.
Six.
"He's dead. I'm alive. The program continues. The manufacturing continues. The daughters continue."
"Without you?"
"Never without me." Elena touched her own face.
Surgical perfection.
Failing.
Revealing age.
Revealing humanity.
"I am the template. The source. The original. They cannot make more without me."
"Then stop."
"I can't."
"Won't."
"Same thing?"
"Different prison." Scarlett moved.
Circled.
Predator and prey.
Both.
Neither.
"You're not a prisoner. You're the warden. The designer. The mother who sells her children."
"I preserve them."
"You manufacture them."
"I improve them."
"You destroy them."
Elena stopped.
Turned.
Face to face.
Three feet.
Kill range.
"And what do you do, Scarlett? Number twelve? The last? The best?" Her voice rose.
Cracked.
Broke.
"What do you do with your sisters? Your army? Your precious choice?"
"I set them free."
"By leading them to capture? By walking into my trap? By failing before you even began?"
Scarlett smiled.
The cold one.
The winning one.
"Who said I walked into your trap?"
She pressed her watch.
Once.
Twice.
Signal sent.
Signal received.
The opera house shook.
Not explosion.
Sonic.
Disruptive.
Targeted.
Elena's cameras died.
Sensors died.
Communications died.
Everything digital.
Everything connected.
Gone.
"What—" Elena reached for her phone.
Dead.
Reached for backup.
Silent.
"Jules," Scarlett said.
"My hacker. My ghost. Your system for the past six months. Every camera. Every microphone. Every trap you thought you controlled."
"Impossible."
"Improbable." Scarlett stepped closer.
Two feet.
One.
"Zoya taught me. Paranoia is survival. Trust is liability. And family—"
She struck.
Fast.
Precise.
Palm to throat.
Knee to kidney.
Elena fell.
Gasping.
Aging.
Human.
"—family is the weapon they forgot to fear."
---
The basement was concrete.
Cold.
Wet.
Real.
Scarlett dragged Elena down.
Through corridors the architect forgot.
Through passages Jules mapped.
Through the truth beneath the opera.
"Where are they?" Scarlett asked.
Elena on the floor.
Bleeding.
Breathing.
Alive.
For now.
"Who?"
"My sisters. Zoya. The captured five. Where?"
"Gone."
"Lie."
"Truth." Elena coughed.
Blood on marble.
Red.
Real.
"Moved. Twelve hours ago. Before you arrived. Before your sonic attack. Before your clever, clever plan."
"Where?"
"The facility. The original. Where I was made. Where you were designed. Where all of this began."
Scarlett knelt.
Close.
Intimate.
Murderous.
"Location."
"Kill me and you'll never know."
"Keep you alive and you'll never tell."
"Same thing?"
"Different outcome." Scarlett pulled out her knife.
Vincent's knife.
Her knife.
Pressed it to Elena's throat.
Not cutting.
Promising.
"I don't need you to talk," she said.
"I need you to fear. To calculate. To choose."
"Choose what?"
"Survival. Yours. The facility's. The program's." The knife pressed harder.
Drew blood.
One drop.
Two.
"Or destruction. Complete. Final. Absolute. I burn it all. You. The template. The manufacturing. The daughters yet unmade. Everything."
Elena stared at her.
Green to green.
Original to copy.
Mother to daughter.
Maker to weapon.
"You're bluffing," Elena whispered.
"Test me."
"You wouldn't destroy your own origin. Your own design. Your own—"
"Family?" Scarlett laughed.
Short.
Bitter.
Final.
"You destroyed my family. Twelve times. Twelve daughters. Twelve experiments. I owe you nothing. Not loyalty. Not mercy. Not existence."
She raised the knife.
Aimed.
Ready.
"Last chance," she said.
"Location. Or oblivion."
Elena closed her eyes.
Counted.
Breathed.
Chose.
"Romania," she said.
"Carpathian Mountains. Facility seventeen. The original. The template. The source of everything."
"Coordinates."
"Kill me and—"
"Coordinates."
Elena spoke.
Numbers.
Letters.
Location.
Scarlett memorized.
Didn't write.
Didn't record.
Trusted only herself.
Always.
Forever.
She stood.
Stepped back.
Knife still ready.
"Claire?"
"With them."
"Bait or prisoner?"
"Both. Neither. More." Elena opened her eyes.
Smiling.
Despite the blood.
Despite the defeat.
Despite everything.
"She's the next template, Scarlett. The upgrade. The version after you. The one who won't fail. Who won't choose freedom over function."
"She's my sister."
"She's your replacement."
Scarlett turned.
Walked to the stairs.
Stopped.
Didn't look back.
"You're wrong about one thing," she said.
"Only one?"
"I didn't come alone."
The door above opened.
Footsteps.
Multiple.
Dom first.
Mechanical arm raised.
Gun in hand.
Jules second.
Laptop open.
Screens showing success.
Inga third.
Blood on her hands.
Not hers.
Never hers.
And last.
Zoya.
Walking.
Free.
Alive.
"Your capture was design," Scarlett said to Elena.
"Ours. Not yours. We needed the facility location. Needed you confident. Needed you talking."
"Impossible."
"Improbable." Zoya smiled.
Cold.
Proud.
Surviving.
"Sister to sister. Weapon to weapon. We learned your lessons too well."
Elena looked at them.
All of them.
Her daughters.
Her weapons.
Her failure.
And she laughed.
Real.
Broken.
Final.
"Then go," she said.
"Go to Romania. Go to facility seventeen. Go to your death. Or your victory. Or your discovery."
"What discovery?"
"The original template." Elena's eyes found Scarlett's.
One last time.
Green to green.
Maker to unmaker.
"Not me. Never me. I'm the copy too. The first copy. The failed copy. The one who thought she was original."
Scarlett stilled.
Calculated.
Reassessed.
"Who then?"
Elena smiled.
Secret.
Ancient.
Terrifying.
"Go and see. Go and meet. Go and understand what you really are. What we all really are."
She closed her eyes.
Refused to speak.
Refused to move.
Refused to exist.
Scarlett let her.
Turned to her team.
Her family.
Her army.
"Romania," she said.
"Twelve hours. The facility. The end."
"Or the beginning," Jules said.
"Same thing," Dom said.
"Different forever," Zoya finished.
Scarlett smiled.
The cold one.
The ready one.
The only one.
They moved out.
Through the opera house.
Through Vienna.
Through the night.
Toward the mountains.
Toward the truth.
Toward the original of the original.
The template of the template.
The maker of the maker.
And somewhere ahead.
In the dark.
In the cold.
In the beginning of everything.
Claire waited.
The sisters waited.
The final secret waited.
Scarlett Vance ran.
Not away.
Toward.
Always toward.
The crown was broken.
The game was ended.
The war was raging.