Spoilers for the end of the series. I don't own.
She is lucky to be alive—it doesn't take any sort of genius to tell her that much. There were a dozen or more opportunities for her to have died—horribly, painfully, in a fantastic spray of blood and gore like all the rest—either by her enemy's hands or the hands of the one who made her this way. Which could mean either herself or the Diabolo; she wasn't exactly sure which was intended.
Lucky, yes, because she is one of only two survivors. Something in her—something dark, but not quite as dark as it had always been in the past—had stifled a shriek of laughter when she watched that old hag Nema claw her own rotting face away, relishing the sound of panicked screaming that echoed throughout the empty apartment complex. Serves you right, bitch, she thought to herself smugly, knowing that the woman had once frequented this particular building, and seeing irony in the fact that she would now die in its ruins.
Sacrificing your own daughter to the devil was just plain wrong, no matter what you were trying achieve. When she had made her own pact with the Diabolo, she had carved out her uncle's heart and written her request out in his blood. Never once had she felt a pang of guilt about it, mostly because she had spent years living with the wretched, dirty old man who had always treated her like a cross between a bit of vermin and a whore. The bastard had gotten only what he'd deserved.
And because of it…? She was akin to a goddess with all of her power. Cute and vulnerable-looking during the day, as soon as the sun set she was a vicious, bloodthirsty woman with no regrets and no weaknesses. At seventeen, she was a Lolita in her own right—seducing much older men and killing them mercilessly, loathing them for the disgusting creatures that they were. The euphoric rush that came afterward was almost a high.
Or so it had been only hours ago.
Now, she is shivering; shaking with exhaustion and blood loss and fear. The police approach her slowly, cautiously, their guns raised and pointed at hers and Kyouya's hearts. His katana falls to the ground with a loud clatter, and she takes this as her cue to raise her hands in the air defensively—a gesture of surrender as well. Unwillingly, her eyes drift to the large (and still growing) pool of freshly spilt blood on the pavement, watching as the crimson seeps into the clothes of the man who had saved her, and the girl who had nearly destroyed them all. Bitch… she curses in her mind half-heartedly, stupid fool.
There is warmth in her chest and she wonders if that means she has a soul again.