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Time to decide who you are without someone pointing the gun at you.

You never needed saving.That’s what made you dangerous.I think that’s what made me stay.

There’s a part of me that wants to say I’m sorry—for the way it started, for the middle, for all the things I never let myself explain.But sorry implies regret, and regret implies I would’ve done it differently.

I wouldn’t have.

Not because it was right.Because it worked.

You made it out.

And if you're smart—and I know you are—you’ll make it mean something.You’ll do what I couldn’t.You’ll finish it.

That’s what I’d say if I wanted you to turn into me.

But I don’t.

That’s not the plan.That was never the plan.

You think it has to be blood for blood.I did too, once.Long enough that I can’t take it back.

But you?You still can.

That doesn’t mean forgive.Or forget.Don’t insult yourself with that bullshit.It means you can cut the rot without letting it infect everything you are.It means you walk out of the fire without deciding to live there.

Will you listen to this?

Probably not.

But I needed to try.Because if there’s even a piece of you left that wants something different, something gentler—you’re allowed to want that.Even now.

Especially now.

They don’t get to keep taking from you just because you survived.

They don’t get to turn you into what they are.

You’re not me.

Don’t become something you’re not just because I made it look like a choice.

—V

63

Marlowe

It starts with a little black book.

Graduates to a spreadsheet.

Just names, at first.First names only.The kind you whisper when you’re not ready to admit you remember more.

Then the rest comes.Slowly.Then all at once.

City.Occupation.What they did.What they took.What it cost.

I don’t rank them by severity.Not anymore.