She's not the hero of this story, this she knows. No one would ever rally around her as their savior, not with the blood and bruises she wears like war paint, not with that temper always simmering low in her gut, flaring up until she chokes on the ashes. People shy away when they see her storming the streets, hair shorn and eyes wild like they were in the arena, collared but never controlled. She's not a nice person, maybe not even a good one, and she knows they're right to fear her. But she doesn't mind. She never has.