Sinclair ran his fingers over the porcelain-like mask. He shaped it like soft clay to the choir of Mozart’s Requiem – Dies Irae. Sinclair quite hated music but it was more for his pieces than it was for him. He thought it fitting. The masks jaw was far too big so he pressed it right under the ears to slim it out. The cheeks were too low so he pushed them up. Sinclair’s cold hands carved away all the imperfections until it was the secretary’s face that stared back at him. It was so close to flawless, just a few more finishing touches had to be made. Sinclair touched the upper lip creating a small beauty mark. He traced the side of the face until he got to the eyebrow and made a small cut in the skin. Must’ve been an injury from her childhood. The scar had almost completely disappeared but Sinclair did not miss a thing, not a single blemish. He turned the mask over in his hands, examining it one final time. It was perfect.

Sinclair stood and walked up to the wall. Almost its entire surface was covered in faces. He hung his newest creation next to the She-Wolf. That is to say, the She-Wolf as she was before she lost her jaw. Sinclair preferred to create his ensemble, mimicking his victims in their most perfect form. He supposed he could make the She-Wolf without her jaw like she was in her true final moments, however, such a thing was too disgusting for his Hall of Faces.

Sinclair turned to the rest of his hall. It was massive, every possible space covered in faces and every single one unique. Hundreds of faces slept on his walls, they were all here. From a cleaning lady that saw too much to the highest profile kills he performed for Avaes. Most of them were without names but they needed no such things in this hall. They were perfectly suspended in his mind, exactly as they were in life.

He was not sure why he did it, he just knew that he did. It was not as if he felt any particular passion towards his masks or anything. Maybe he did it out of fascination or maybe just as a sadistic way to keep score. Maybe he did it as a punishment to himself or maybe he did it out of respect. So that even if everyone else forgot these people, he would not. They would be remembered by their killer at the very least, forever etched in his mind.

Sinclair walked farther down the hall until he came to a specific mask. Holly’s unmoving face stared back at him. Sinclair gently touched her soft lips allowing her in, just this once. Holly’s mouth opened and a white liquid came out, going up his arm until it covered his eyes.

“Dad?” said Holly twisting a piece of her long blond hair with her finger.

“Yes sweetie?” said Sinclair putting down the coffee cup he was washing. He remembered hating sweetie as a term of endearment, but he saw a father in a movie say it once. It made the act more believable.

“Do you love me?” she said looking at the ceiling and spinning in circles.

Samuel Sinclair turned to his daughter and crafted a warm smile, “Of course I love you.”

“What kind of a question is that?” said Adam chewing on a straw, “Don’t you love us?”

Holly stopped spinning to think, “I dunno. I’m not sure if I love you guys.”

The little girl’s words for once caught Samuel and Adam off guard.

This time Holly locked eyes with Samuel, “Do you hate me, Dad?”

Sinclair didn’t know how to respond. Why would she ask about love first and then ask about hate? Did she mean something by it? Was she trying to trick him? Was this some feeling or thing he was unaware of? Sinclair didn’t have anything to pull from and a look at Adam showed that he didn’t either.

He couldn’t think of a way to respond other than saying, “Do you hate us?”

At this Holly giggled and smiled, “Nope. That I DO know. I don’t hate either of you. That I can be sure of.”

The white liquid fell off Sinclair’s eyes and was all pulled back into Holly’s mouth until her lips finally came back together. It was such a simple memory but one that stuck out to him. Sinclair met his daughter’s eyes once again. She looked so peaceful, her clear blue eyes void of fear or pain or even a lack of hate and yet.

Even in this form, she looked more human than Sinclair.

The hall of faces faded away as Sinclair opened his eyes and got up from his bed. A small streak of moonlight peaked in through the curtains just barely illuminating the hotel room. Sinclair looked over to the other bed. Adam was sleeping soundly, an empty bag of Twin Snakes on his bedside table. Sinclair walked over to the bathroom and filled a glass with water.

Cicero had evaded them all day. Or maybe he should say Figaro instead. He was not completely convinced that he was Cicero. It seemed way too easy. Either way, Figaro had avoided being found. He owned a massive amount of properties which made tracking him quite difficult. They had only gone to about half of them today, and tomorrow they would pick up where they left off. Sinclair drank his water, the cold liquid running down his throat. Sooner or later they would find Cicero and more importantly, take back what that freak stole.

“Avaes may have given up, but I have not,” he thought, “my manhunt continues. I want what you took Cicero and I don’t care who has to die to get it.”

Holly’s blue eyes came to his mind.

“Even those I don’t hate.”