Chapter One: Inheritance of Silence

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The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.

It slid down the windows in lazy sheets, warping the world outside into watercolor shapes—bare trees, rusted cars, a cracked sidewalk that led nowhere but out. Somewhere, a dog barked. A siren passed, distant and indifferent. But inside the tiny apartment on the third floor of a worn-out building, it was all silence.

Yvette Villareal stood at the kitchen sink, staring blankly at the steaming mug in her hands. She couldn’t remember when she’d made it. Couldn’t remember if she’d eaten. Her fingers curled tightly around the ceramic, as if the warmth alone could anchor her.

The kitchen light buzzed overhead. Flickering.

She didn’t bother fixing it anymore. Not worth the effort.

From down the hall came the soft creak of a door opening, followed by the padding of small feet. Yvette turned as her sister appeared in the doorway, rabbit plushie in hand, face still warm and wrinkled from sleep.

“You didn’t wake me up,” Cara said, blinking.

“There’s no school today,” Yvette said softly.

“There is. It’s Monday.”

Yvette hesitated, then forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I called you in sick.”

Cara didn’t ask why. She just walked over and leaned her head against Yvette’s hip. Yvette’s hand drifted instinctively into her sister’s tangled hair, fingers combing gently, slowly, the way their mother used to do.

Except their mother wasn’t here anymore.

She’d been gone for three months.

And still, every morning, Yvette woke up expecting to hear the clink of her mother’s spoon against a coffee mug, the sound of her voice humming something too old for the radio, too warm for the air. But there was only silence. And the constant ache in her chest that never seemed to dull.

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They had lost everything.

Not all at once—that would have been easier. No, grief was cruel. It came in layers, in folded papers and court dates and impossible decisions. It came in calls from numbers she didn’t recognize, telling her she’d need to vacate the house within thirty days, that her mother’s debts were “significant,” that guardianship would have to be evaluated.

Yvette was twenty-three. Old enough to fight. Young enough to lose.

Delilah had made sure of that.

Yvette’s stepmother had stood in the back of the courtroom during the hearing, arms folded, expression stone-cold beneath designer sunglasses. She hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to. Her presence was enough—a looming shadow of power and threat and something else Yvette still couldn’t name.

The judge had granted her custody. Barely. On a “provisional” basis. With frequent check-ins. One missed visit, one late rent payment, and it would all come undone.

And then they were gone—from the only home they’d ever known, into a crumbling third-floor apartment with thin walls, creaky floors, and mold blooming like bruises in the corners.

But at least they were together.

That’s what Yvette told herself every night before sleep. And again when she woke up.

At least they were together.

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That morning, Cara sat at the kitchen table drawing with colored pencils scavenged from a church donation box. Yvette stared at her laptop, willing her brain to function, to compose emails, to respond to clients—if any were left. Her freelance copywriting gigs had dried up since the move. Too many late nights. Too many missed deadlines. Too much chaos.

An email notification blinked at the top of her screen.

She opened it.

From: Unknown

Subject: Check your mailbox.

No body. No signature.

Her heart jumped. A dozen thoughts crashed through her mind, all jagged and irrational. She rose slowly, glanced at Cara, then grabbed her hoodie.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

“Bring snacks,” Cara mumbled, eyes on her drawing.

Yvette smiled weakly and stepped outside.

The hallway was dim and smelled faintly of mildew. The stairs groaned beneath her weight as she descended, hoodie pulled tight against the cold. Outside, the rain was a thin mist, drifting rather than falling, the sky an endless stretch of silver.

She crossed to the rusted row of mailboxes at the building’s entrance.

Hers stuck, as always, but finally gave way with a grunt of effort.

Inside: a manila envelope. No stamp. No return address.

Her name was written across the front in looping black marker: YVETTE.

She opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside was a single photograph.

And the moment she saw it, her stomach turned to ice.

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It was her mother.

But not the woman from photo albums or birthdays or beach trips.

This was surveillance.

The angle was high and grainy. The background sterile—an office hallway or a hospital corridor. Her mother was looking over her shoulder, wide-eyed. Alarmed. The lighting made her skin look pale, even gray.

Yvette had never seen this image before. Had never seen her mother like that.

She flipped the photo over.

On the back, in the same looping handwriting:

She tried to protect you. Don’t waste it.

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Yvette stood on the sidewalk for a long time, the photo trembling in her hands, the rain soaking into her sleeves.

When she finally looked up, she felt it—that crawling sensation under her skin. Like being watched.

She turned.

But the street was empty.

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She didn’t show Cara the photo.

Instead, she hid it in the back of her closet, behind a loose panel, beneath an old shoebox of her mother’s perfume bottles she couldn’t bear to throw away. Then she went back to the kitchen, kissed Cara’s head, and pretended everything was normal.

But she couldn’t stop shaking.

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That night, she couldn’t sleep.

Every creak in the walls, every gust of wind outside sounded like footsteps. She sat up in bed, staring at the hallway.

And then, at 2:17 a.m., someone knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then silence.

She froze.

Slowly, she got up, moved quietly toward the front door. Peered through the peephole.

A man stood there.

Tall. Dark coat. Rain glistening on his shoulders.

He wasn’t a stranger.

She’d seen him once before—at the funeral. A shadow, standing beneath the trees. Watching. Not approaching.

Now he was at her door.

And in his hand was another envelope.

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“Who are you?” she called through the door.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said calmly. “I have something you need to see.”

“What is it?”

“Answers.”

She didn’t open the door. Just waited.

“I knew your mother,” he added. “She trusted me.”

That did it.

She opened the door.

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He didn’t come inside.

He handed her a USB drive.

“Play it when the kids are asleep,” he said. “Then destroy it.”

And he turned and walked away.

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Yvette didn’t wait.

As soon as Cara fell asleep curled on the couch, she plugged the USB into her old laptop.

There was one file.

A video.

It began with grainy footage—same as the photo. Her mother walking quickly through a sterile corridor. Looking behind her.

Seconds later, a group of men in suits followed.

They didn’t look like doctors. Or security.

The feed cut.

Then came a document:

PROJECT EVERREACH

Subject: Clara Villareal

Status: TERMINATED

Contingency: SUCCESSOR UNDER OBSERVATION

Designation: CODE IRIS

Yvette couldn’t breathe.

Then the final file loaded.

An audio recording.

It was her mother’s voice.

“If you’re hearing this, it means I’m already gone. And if they’re coming for you—then I failed. I’m sorry, Yvette. I wanted to shield you from it all. From the truth. But some bloodlines… some minds… they don’t stay hidden forever.”

Yvette covered her mouth as her mother’s voice cracked.

“They’ll come for Cara next.”

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She didn’t sleep that night.

She just sat on the floor of her bedroom, knees to chest, the laptop still glowing beside her, her mother’s voice echoing in the hollow space where her heart used to be.

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The next morning, Cara showed her a drawing.

“I dreamed about the man again,” she said.

Yvette blinked. “What man?”

“The one with silver eyes. He was standing outside our window. Watching. He said we’d see Mommy again. But not the way we think.”

Yvette looked at the drawing.

It was a stick figure man with white circles for eyes.

And in the background—a building on fire.

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