Tonight I die.

…

All right, I will amend that statement.

Tonight I supposedly die.

Better?

Tonight, I kill the last of my torturers and frame the scene so it seems like I perished as well. I told Shigaraki and Kurogiri to not assist me in this operation any more besides transporting me to England, as I was the one who struck the deal with Madam Ahearn, and I did not want either party learning more than they have to about each other. Before stepping through the warp gate, Shigaraki threatened to truly kill me if I did not return. As if you can kill a dead person again! Nonetheless, I promised him I would return alive. "Just open the gate before school begins, 8:25 a.m., Tokyo time," I said.

So here I am 6 p.m. London time, equating 2 a.m. Tokyo time. That means I am not getting any sleep. The fact that I have a final exam later makes it all the better. I stand in Madam's home garden, hovering over the home blueprints of the next disgusting soul to die, explaining the logistics of my plan. "My final victim lives in a manor, within the forest, secluded from the neighborhoods. One would think that would work to our advantage, as help would be less likely to arrive. However, the estate is fenced with electrical wires and tight security. There are even thermal body detectors. Even if I turn myself invisible and elude all the cameras and guards, I cannot completely hide my presence. The place is more a fortress than a home."

"How about breaking in through the windows? That usually works for you," she suggests.

"That's not a viable option, either," I counter. "Just look at the design of the windows. They are made of bulletproof glass, and in sets of two with a gap between both panels. There are horizontal and vertical iron bars on the inner side. Barbed ones, too. I could decay them, but it will use precious time, and the risk is too much. Given the longer hours of daylight these days and the immense security, I am all too likely to be caught."

"Then how do you intend to infiltrate this fortress?"

I lament, "Sometimes I wish I were a cat. Now is one of those moments. I could stroll the premises and climb into my victim's lap with none the wiser. Then claw at his throat until he was nothing but bloody shreds. Such a shame that of all the quirks I absorbed, not one of them included animal shapeshifting." Becoming more serious, I answer the question. "My victim dealt with ammunition. Illegally, of course. A shipment is bound to arrive to the manor tonight, so I plan on masquerading as one of the workers on the receiving side. By providing some false identification, I can wear a uniform and easily leave and enter the premises."

Madam has her doubts. "Say we get you a fake I.D. But the person who will authenticate it will remember the name and face on it. And then he could report it to the police."

"That is why I will play the role of the authenticator." I shuffle in my pockets for something. "Here. This is one of the tens of people who verify identities at the manor. Rather, was. Female. In her late twenties or early thirties. And she looks nothing like me but very much like the corpse you stole from the morgue," I glance pointedly at the body bag lying next to the table. "I intend to burn the corpse to ashes, but if miraculously remnants remain and the forensics team identifies some characteristics, then this woman can be linked to the body."

"All right. But as you stated just now, you look nothing like the dead body. This woman has red hair, you don't. This woman has red eyes, you don't. This woman has ear piercings, you don't. She is taller than you, more muscular than you, and less curvaceous than you. It is good that she looks so vastly different from you, but how will you pretend to be her?"

I take a deep breath. "Please do not get upset, but that is where your eldest daughter will come in. She wants to become a makeup designer when she grows up, right? And she's been practicing it for years. If you allow it, then your daughter can make me look like her. While I cannot change my physical build, I can make increase my height. I will require your tallest stiletto heels." It's probably best I don't mention that the rare times I've worn heels, my feet were pockmarked with blisters afterward.

Madam is upset. Her mouth thins and eyes narrow. Understandably, she wants to keep her child out of this as much as possible. But she relents. "Fine. I'll tell her," she says curtly. Then she looks at the blueprints again and reverts to the original subject. "Since this man is an arms dealer, I presume that you will turn his own weapons on him. Use his explosives and whatnot to blast the fortress to smithereens."

"Indeed," I affirm.

"As much as I loathe it, do not waste time collecting evidence of his crimes, Selene. Let it all burn with him," she warns.

"I know. It would be suspicious if the murderer died, but the evidence was intact."

Neither Calliope nor I say a word as she alters my appearance drastically.

I sit in front of her vanity, staring at the cherry blossom pink walls, while Calliope twists and turns my face here and there. Her gaze alternates between the I.D. card and mine. I remember the first time we met. She was distrustful of me, and since then, it has not seemed to ease. While Thalia and Ourania have opened up to me - Thalia is fond of the theatrical arts, and Ourania shows keen interest in the stars and planets - Calliope observed me with cautious silence. A week after Madam received legal custody of the girls, I noticed the subtle flatness of Calliope's stomach. She had an abortion, and I was told to help her through the aftereffects. I was happy for her, but even while I tended to her, the air of unease did not dissipate between us. I suspected it was the fact that I am a murderess, amongst other things.

When she beckons for me to keep my eyes open, I try not to flinch at the red contacts. I truly despise contacts. Then she fidgets to fix a fiery red wig to my scalp. My head is pulled in all directions, much to my bewilderment. Finally, she seems to be satisfied with the outcome, and she knots the wig into a tight bun. I feel plastic clip-on earrings poke my ears. I am too preoccupied with the discomfort that I almost miss what she says: "Look in the mirror, and tell me if this is good."

I do, and I must credit her for her talent with cosmetics. I really do look like the woman in the I.D. card. "It is good." This is how our few exchanges have gone. Short, curt sentences. Direct and straight to the point. Neither she tries to change the pattern, nor do I.

"Is this woman another life you're going to steal?"

The question was not one I was prepared for. "What do you mean? This woman is already dead."

"Oh, so you've already stolen the life of this woman."

I'm vexed by her accusation. "I have never killed a woman," I retort. "Only men, and specifically those with whom I had a vendetta."

Calliope's caramel eyes flare. "Right, Mum told me all about that. You were a rape victim just like me, Tillie, and Aura. You killed all the men who raped you. You stole their lives."

"Do you really think they deserved to live?" I cannot help but defend myself. Actually, why do I care what she thinks of me?

"Do you really think you were the one to decide that?" she counters.

Now my own wrath surges like an avalanche in my veins. My voice is acidic. "Do you really think I would have received justice had I left it to the legal system?" She doesn't react, evidently thinking I'm being preposterous. Don't you dare dismiss me. Don't you dare. "I am the ward of one of the world's richest businessmen. Imagine the power money has. To buy, to sell, to deal, to bribe. Had I reported what was happening to me to a police officer or a social worker or a lawyer, what do you think would have happened?" She still does not respond. "That was not a rhetorical question. What do you think would have happened?"

She glares and bites out, "Either that person would die or be swayed by the prospect of millions of cash."

"Exactly."

"That doesn't mean you had to go on a killing spree!" she insists. "Escape, run away, fight, do something!"

I laugh. Boisterously. Calliope stares at me with unveiled disgust and derision. Now she thinks I'm mocking her. I am. "How bold of you to think that my first response to my predicament was to assassinate! What you're suggesting were things I had already thought of. And done. The people I reached out for help were deposed the next day. Whenever I tried to resist, my abuse only intensified. The few times I attempted escape … well, I was lucky to not die a painful death by hungry dogs."

She shakes her head vehemently. "You're lying."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really? Well, words may lie, but scars do not." I pull my shirt above my head, wearing nothing but a strapless bra underneath. I feel her stare at my back, tracing every dark ribbon of wounds old and new. "Near my shoulders and midriff are the marks of claws. Around my neck are the imprints of teeth. Toward the center are the ropes of whips. The scars that look pink are from burns, and the rest are the side effects of my quirk." I watch her reaction from her reflection in the mirror. She has no riposte. Her eyes submit in acquiescence and defeat. She lost this argument. Out of bitterness, I lift my forearms, showing them to her. "I dare you to say that I engraved these letters myself."

She passes me the shirt back, but raises her chin, obviously still trying to salvage some of her pride. In the process, I've lost some of mine. I sigh, "You think that I have no conscience. That I'm just a tank of wrath and fury, desiring to ravage everything that hurt me. You have no idea how wrong you are."

"What do you mean? I do think you want to destroy everything."

It is my turn to shake my head. "I want to destroy, but I also want to create."

"You're going to have to explain in greater detail," she heaves, frustrated. "I can't read minds."

"Do you love someone?" I ask.

"Excuse me?" I repeat the question again. "How do you think you have the right to ask that? And don't change the topic!"

"Just answer the bloody question!" My vexation returns tenfold. "It is related to the subject at hand."

She glowers at me before defensively replying, "There's a girl in my year. I've been wanting to ask her out for a long time." Her eyes dare me to insult her for her romantic preferences.

"I know you are waiting to unleash the barrage of insults you have reserved for me if I deride your tastes. Don't bother. I have nothing against you in that matter. What I want to do is make an analogy. Imagine you were in my place. And-"

"As if!" she interrupts. "I get that you've gone through so much worse than me, but I would never do the things that you did. Not even in my imagination!"

Madam said that her middle daughter was the argumentative one, but I think she mixed the order. The middle one has been nothing but respectful to me, while the elder one has no restraint on her tongue. "Oh, shove your indignant pride for a moment. I defeated you in the argument anyway. And if you want an explanation, you will have to what I order you. Learn. To. Listen. Understood?"

I would say that she deserves the title of the glare that rages like wildfire, but given that mine reveals cold, murderous intent, I won't relinquish that title just yet. "No. We're done. I don't know why I even decided to talk to you." She returns the cosmetics to their respective positions, not meeting me in the eyes anymore. "Thank you for bringing my sisters and I back home. Thank you for making Mum happy again. Just this night, and whatever bargain you made with Mum will be met. Then I will have no reason to see your face, and you won't have to see mine."

She's dismissing me again! How dare she! "No, Calliope Ahearn. We are most certainly not done." I get up, blocking her path to the door.

"I am. Move." When I don't, she pushes me. "Move, I said! I don't want to talk to you!"

"You instigated this conversation, but I will finish it," I whisper harshly. Then I pull her by the arms and shove her onto the stool which I once occupied. She thrashes, yelling at me to let go. I remain silent, waiting for her temper tantrum to cease. When fire encounters ice, it rages brilliantly, determined to melt the ice, evaporate the ice. Destroy the ice. But what fire forgets is that water is its enemy. Its master. For water remains water, in all its forms, for eternity. But fire is for a moment. Deprive of it air and tinder, it will snuff out pitifully. That is what I am doing. In front of her fiery temper, my icy wrath persists. She will lose her will, while I will remain unchanged. I feel her give up as her movements become slow and sluggish, until her arms grow limp. I wait for her eyes to reveal her vanquishment before releasing her.

"Listen and listen well. Remain quiet, or I'll undo all the hard work you put into my appearance. You can have your next argument with your mother, then. Understand?" Sparks light in her eyes again, but she nods, regardless. "Good. Imagine you were in place. You suffered through all the things I did. Committed all the things I did. And yet you kept it all a secret from the person you loved. How would you feel? Again, that is not a rhetorical question."

Calliope gazes at me with suspicion. "I guess I would feel guilty. On the one hand, I love this person deeply, and I want to become my best for them. On the other hand, I am at my worst, and my love doesn't even know it."

"That is precisely how I feel. So remorseful, it is eating me from inside. There is a boy I love. He is my best friend, and he does not know about my rapes nor my murders. Once, I made the mistake of ending my friendship with him. It was not easy to attempt to repair it. He made me promise to earn his friendship. What I do should warrant his hatred instead. Then he made me promise not to kill myself. But the thought crosses my mind hundreds of times every day. Finally, he made me promise to be more honest with him. And yet, my trove of secrets only grows with each passing rape and murder. I broke every promise I made to him, but he has kept each one he made to me. I, Lucifer Morningstar, Devil, Avatar of Pride, regret all my sins in the name of love." I'm such a fool for loving, and I despise myself so much. I fall to my knees in front of her and cry. Is there a name to the culmination of emotions I feel right now? One part of me is infuriated at such a display of weakness. Another part of me is glad to have confessed to someone besides myself about my romantic feelings. Even if it is to a girl who finds me revolting. It feels like a weight off my chest. But another weight presses down on me. Much bigger and heavier than the former. Voicing my darkest truths gave them essence, and that essence aches. It feels as though it could crush me. "There is no redemption for me. Fallen I was. Fallen I shall remain, evermore."

I feel hands rest on my shoulders. I look up to see Calliope biting her lip. "I'm sorry," she says. "I was too harsh with you. What I said probably made you think I hate you. I think I hated you because I envied you. I'm not usually this brash. You see, that night when you rescued me and my sisters, Tillie brought the letter to us. I wasn't sure what to believe. The Bone Crusher Killer was here to rescue us? And Mum - the most honorable and self-respected person I know - was in on it? The whole ordeal seemed ridiculous. And then after the custody trial when Mum told us more about you, I was jealous. Incensed. You lived through the same hells as we did, even worse, and yet you rose from the ashes like a phoenix ablaze. You took justice in your hands and exacted it as revenge. You resisted, even in your warped, malicious way. Something I was too afraid to do. Too cowardly to do, even though it was my duty as the oldest child to protect my sisters. And I think that's why I resented you. You were - are - so much braver than I am. Even now, you're confronting the last of your tormentors here in England, and you're going to pretend to die in a blaze of glory. But here I am, projecting my weaknesses onto you. Hating you when really, I'm hating myself the most."

She's fighting her tears back while mine run harder with her words. "You give me too much credit," I comment wistfully. "Do you ever plan to tell the girl you love about what happened?"

"Yeah. Honesty is important in any relationship."

"I agree. But at least you can do that and perhaps still have a relationship with her. In my case, I cannot do the same. I have damned myself too much to earn his love. So ultimately, was any of it worth it?" That is a rhetorical question I aim dejectedly at myself.

But she responds to it without my prompting. "It was," she states fervently. "You're not the only girl those bastards hurt. Who knows how many other girls they forced into their beds and how many more they would have? You think that all you've done is stolen lives? Yeah, you have, but that's not the only thing. More importantly, you saved the lives of many girls who have or would have fallen prey to them. Tens of lives sacrificed to save hundreds. I don't think it's a wasted effort. Just take us as an example! By torturing my father, you saved four females. You saved a family." She furiously rubs the tears away. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I really mean it this time."

I never thought of my killings that way. It was always about myself, my revenge, my wrath. To eliminate all of my wrongdoers before erasing the greatest wrongdoer of my life. But it never crossed my mind that these murders would inadvertently protect the future of unnamed innocents. Now I weep. "The Devil is called a monster. Monsters are not saints," I refute weakly.

"The Devil is a punisher. Sinners go to hell to pay for their sins, and the Devil ensures that judgment is passed onto them. Yeah, he loathes God. He organizes an army of his best generals to overthrow him. But God also hates lesbians and abortions, so I'm not really feeling devout toward him these days."

I laugh through my tears. "So what are you now?"

"Neither a worshipper of God, nor a follower of Satan. Just myself. But seeing the Devil on her knees in front of me is pretty satisfying, though."

At that, I stand up and glance in the mirror. Another chuckle escapes my mouth. "I ruined your effort with my crying. I apologize."

"Don't worry about it. I can do it again. Better this time, too." She gets up and sets me down on the stool, opening her cosmetic supplies again. "Just tell me more about the boy you're in love with. Given that you viciously slaughter males, I thought you hated men."

"Another bold assumption. I do not hate all men. I hate the men who dare to defile and disrespect me. My best friend is not like them. He genuinely cares for me and acknowledges my talents time and time again. He's sweet, gentle, and though he does not know the specifics, he understands that I have unresolved trauma." He has his own trauma, and he copes with it better than I do.

"Then why exactly do you think he won't forgive you for all you've done?"

I swallow. "He is a Pro-Hero."

Her eyes meet mine directly. She stills. "Well, fuck," she jokes. I chuckle again. "That explains everything."

Through my snorts, I gasp, "If I do tell him the truth, the first thing he will do is report me to the authorities, friendship forgotten. Then it will be candlelight dinners in the prison cafeteria and sweet talk through the prison telephone. Admittedly, I never thought much about my love life because I did not expect to live long enough to have one. However, romantic dates in the prison were not one of the situations I envisioned." She laughs along.

After a while, she claims that she is done.

I thank her and turn toward the door, but she stops me.

"Again, thank you for everything that you've done."

I smile in welcome.