The early Gotham air seeped into her lungs, bringing in scents of gasoline, secondhand smoke, heaters burning off dust, and hotdog stands. The pale, early light of morning was just poking over the horizon as Cataleya left her car, a purple hoodie and some black sweatpants swamping her petite frame. Crossing her arms, the young woman jogged across the parking lot, slipping into the old building through the backdoor and into the warmth.

The studio had been a rare find for Leya; one she truly thought she'd never be able to match. A large room, two walls across from each other lined with mirrors and a long, polished wooden pole about waist height ran across them. She knew the front door was still locked; Yvonne didn't start teaching classes until nine.

Dance had been a passion of hers ever since Santi's death. One night, while her mother was tucked away in their apartment, crying herself to sleep or staring blankly at a wall, and her father was at the local bar drinking himself into a coma, she went out for a walk. In the warm, late summer air, she'd stumbled upon the old ballet studio; Emilio had just been finishing some choreography. The first time she saw him leap in the air, she fell in love. All she could think was, I want to fly like that!

It was hard work; her mother was horrified at the idea of her doing anything remotely risky or athletic, but in the wake of the families first tragedy, Leya wanted nothing else. So, after her mother fell asleep early, she grabbed her small bag of second-hand dance clothes and borrowed ballet slippers before she walked two miles, alone, to the dance studio. And every time she moved, every time she felt that music in her veins, controlling her muscles, she suddenly felt like everything was…less. Less terrible, less scary, less oppressive.

When she got to Gotham, Yvonne was just about to quiet Marty's. The two became good friends and had struck up a deal: if Leya cleaned the studio every morning for free before classes began, she got access to it every weekday. A hell of a deal, if the girl said so herself.

Walking over to the large, silver stereo in the front of the room, she dropped her bag, pulled out her phone, and started the music.

It was so easy to just get lost for two hours. With the warmups, the jumps, the spins, and the mandatory bit of improv she always did at the end. It just felt like submerging yourself into warm, soundless water after such a stressful time; just listening to the music and following its beat as the world faded to nothing around you. Finally, she was in her last set of pirouettes as the song came to an end, and she stuck her foot back, throwing up a hand and ending in a pose.

A cold droplet of sweat traced her spine, and Leya straightened from her stance to begin her cooldown. But as she did, her eyes caught sight of the marks on her skin.

She walked, steps quiet against the wood, and stopped directly in front of the mirror, staring at the girl in front of her. The eleven marks were insanely difficult to ignore, even if you did first mistake them for tattoos. There was just something about them that drew your eyes in, that commanded your attention.

Leya hated them.

From the time she was young, she looked forward to meeting her platonic soulmates. Her parents had no idea how to handle the destiny that most likely awaited their eldest child. Being a Chain didn't come with an instruction manual, but being so young and naïve, she had assumed that her soulmates would love her, adore her, always watch out for her. She had a guaranteed family, right?

But now, as she got older, she began to see them as a curse. Who would want to be with her, love her, marry her with these? When she met her mates, how would they feel about her being a Chain? It seemed like such a small thing, but it truly dictated her life. From what very little information there was on Chain's, it sounded like the people whose marks covered the surface of her skin were powerful; powerful enough to constantly be in her life, never leaving, never allowing her to have a life that was her very own.

She didn't want a random group of people making decisions for her; she didn't want someone to only care about her because of some cosmic decision. She wanted a healthy, happy life alone. With people she chose, that she liked, that she wanted around her.

That same day, once she was showered and had gotten a few hours of sleep, Leya found herself in the village. She liked browsing there. The yells of the street vendors, smells of fish being brought in off the boats and the hustle and bustle of the crowd reminded her of home, even just in the slightest.

As she walked down the street, a hanging sign caught her eye, making her pause.

Crystal Ball Books.

Tilting her head, the young woman walked inside, breathing in the scent of the old pages. It was a small store, filled with dusted shelves that were stuffed with books. She recognized some of the titles, but others weren't anything she'd seen in other, more popular bookstores. A bell above the door rang loudly when she entered, the shrill tinkling shattering the silence inside, but nobody appeared to be there. It was completely empty.

Walking forward, she reached a hand up, running the pads of her fingers softly over the titles. Nothing was really catching her eye, and she continued to wander the shop out of boredom. Maybe she could get a hold of Jen tonight and they could do a girl's night again-

Wait.

She paused, blinking, then backed up several steps. Her eyes went to the spine of a book that was just a few inches above her head, and she reached up, fingers curling around it and sliding it off the shelf.

Marked: Platonic and Romantic Marks

Under the title was a sentence that made her breath catch, and she ran her fingers over the words to try and smudge of any dust or dirt that may have been playing tricks on her.

Chains: Abandoned History or Urban Legends?

"See something you like, sweetie?"

Leya jumped so violently she nearly dropped the book but managed to keep a grip on it as she whirled around.

Standing behind her was a woman; roughly seventies, with long gray dreadlocks that reached her hips. She was covered in all sorts of strange jewelry. Leather chords covered in weird seashells, chunky bracelets, ears full of silver and gold studs, and several feathery necklaces layering her neck and chest. Her dress was brushing the floor, as well. It was colorful checkers, none of the colors complimenting or matching the other, and chunky brown sandals. But the most startling part was her eyes: they were green, a shockingly bright shade that made Leya want to squirm.

"Um, yes." The younger woman confirmed quietly, eyes flicking around as she wondered where this woman had come from. "Do you have any others like this?"

The woman stretched out a leathery, wrinkled hand and took the books, eyes flitting over the cover. "I'm afraid not, dear. Literature on soul marks is hard to come by these days; normally all you can find are a few scholarly papers from historians."

Leya tried not to deflate, knowing it had been a long shot. After twenty-three years on this earth, she'd learned that soul marks weren't really part of rational conversation. It was like trying to bring up unicorns to adults, most people treated it as a joke or an urban legend. The fact that this book existed almost seemed too good to be true.

Speaking of…

"How much?" She asked, holding it up to the woman.

That night, the young girl curled up onto her couch, TV on to offer some comforting background noise, before she breathed deeply and opened the book. It was old, that much was clear by the language of the text and the style of the books binding, but it was also clear it hadn't been touched. The binding crackled slightly as she opened it. The stiffness of the pages suggesting it had sat, unopened, for years. She swallowed as the pages turned, brown eyes drinking in the words on the page.

She skipped the romantic soulmate portion; she knew hers were platonic. Romantic marks were colored, platonic ones were black, gray, or both.

The book offered some pretty helpful information, like discouraging certain myths. Like you couldn't read your soulmates mind, feel their pain, and your mark didn't burn when they were around. Which was a shame, because that would make her life a hell of a lot easier. There were some distinguishing characteristics, though, such as the ability to guess your soulmates behavior, understand their rationale without knowing them for a very long time, and reading into their emotions. It was also incredibly difficult to lie to your soulmate, but not impossible. Normally, doing so would bring on some type of illness, like a cold or nausea, and wouldn't lessen until you admitted whatever truth you were burying.

She continued to read through, but soon, her page turning got slower. Her eyes grew heavy. The space heater in the corner made the air feel pleasantly warm, like a large sleeping bag. Before she could stop it, Leya drifted off to sleep on the couch, wrapped like a burrito in her blanket. But had she continued to read, she may have gotten to the section on Chains.

And maybe she would have noticed some alarming red flags before she went to work the next night.

It was four weeks after her first shift at the Lounge when shit finally got close to the fan. It didn't hit it *yet* but don't worry, reader, we're getting there.

For four weeks, she did regular cocktail waitress duties. None of the bosses 'friends' showed up for that time, and it was a blessing. Mostly, she helped with drink deliveries, and helped clean up the bar before and after the shifts. Another job of hers was always making sure Penguin had what he needed. Bringing drinks, food, towels. He even asked her for advice once; easily the weirdest damn moment of her life, and that included her tour in Iraq.

It was simple, really. As she set his dinner onto his desk, he'd looked up and off-handedly asked her if having more men present during a cargo exchange was a better security choice, or fewer seemed less suspicious. Unsure what he would think of her answer, she chose a safe middle ground and said it might be wise to have a lower number of men in uniform and at the front, but have others standing by in less conspicuous places. In cars, standing at payphones, waiting at bus stops, etc. He'd looked at her, actually seeming mildly impressed, before grunting out a thank you and shooing her out of the room.

The book always sat on her bedside table, glaring at her. She knew she should read the Chain section, but every time she got there, she would find herself hesitantly closing the book. As if she was afraid of whatever information or warnings were waiting for her. Other than that, though, things seemed to fall into a mostly smoothed out routine.

But if Leya had learned just one thing in her short twenty-three years, it was that whenever you got comfortable, that was when you were headed for a drop.

It started off as a normal shift; she came in, helped get the bar wiped down, and started messing around with Mason and Jen. In the middle of laughing at a joke Mason had told her as she set up a fancy array of wine glasses that she heard it.

"Leya!"

Penguin's cockney accent boomed across the club, silencing the chatter throughout the main area. Everyone straightened immediately and cleared a path, parting like the Red Sea as the heavyset man, still clad in his fur-lined coat, approached the young woman. Schooling her face, she stepped forward.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm going to be having some guests tonight." He informed her gruffly, but something was off. She couldn't explain how, she just knew. Looking at him, she could tell he was…anxious? No, that wasn't it. Was it?

"Yes, sir, I'll make sure the Meeting Room is prepared."

"I also need you to be on your A game tonight, love." He informed her, staring at her face with a hard look. "These guests I'm having; they're less forgiving then I am when it comes to mistakes, so there will be none. Make sure you're prepared and ready for anything, understood?"

She nodded, a wavy piece of black hair falling into her face. "I understand, Mr. Cobblepot."

He nodded at her, then did something that surprised just about everyone, including her. As he went to walk past her, he reached out a hand and patted her shoulder, (rather roughly, she might add; he nearly knocked her over). "'Atta girl." He commented lowly before waddling off on his cane/umbrella, his bodyguards following.

Silence followed him until he had ascended to his office above the club, and as everyone slowly got back to their duties, Leya didn't miss the looks they were shooting her, whispering quietly among themselves. Doing her best to ignore them, she turned back to the bar, now gathering supplies for the Meeting Room. However, she stopped when she saw Mason staring at her, his jaw nearly on the floor.

"What?"

"It's just- I don't think I've ever seen the boss act like that before." He stated, bewildered. Leya shrugged.

"So, he got a little friendly with a female waitress, that's never happened before?"

"No," Mason stated firmly, shaking his head, "he gets 'friendly' with the female staff members all the time. But, and don't take any of these the wrong way, A) You're not really his type, he likes tall blondes with boob jobs, and B) That wasn't 'friendly' behavior, that was…" he trailed off, then shook his head again, this time as if to clear out some confusion. "Well, I'm not entirely sure what that was."

Leya rolled her eyes, lifting her leg to scratch her calf, "Well, whatever it was, I've got to prepare a private meeting for what seems to be a large group of the criminally insane, so," she winked at him, "wish me luck."

The table was wiped down, the seats had been vacuumed, the floors swept and mopped, and the one-way mirror had been cleaned so thoroughly it almost looked like the wall was missing.

Standing at the doorway to the stairs, Leya adjusted her hair and uniform as she surveyed the room, hoping it was up to the standard. Whoever was coming to make her boss this anxious wasn't anybody she truly wanted to meet, but if she could just get through tonight, maybe they wouldn't show up again for a while.

Wishful thinking? Yeah, probably.

Grabbing the bucket of cleaning supplies, she started down the steps when a familiar voice stopped her.

"Leya!"

Penguin limped up toward her, still flanked by his bodyguards. Chester and David were their names. Chester was ok, she'd learned on the walk back to her apartment that one night that he didn't talk unless he was answering a direct question. David was just weird, cause not only did he not talk, he stared. Not in a perverted or creepy way, it was just…odd.

The club owner stopped in the room beside the younger woman, looking around. He would never give her too much outright praise, but she'd done an excellent job. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking at first, hiring her. The Penguin didn't do charity. But it had been a random impulse, one that had clearly paid off. As well as the fact that he enjoyed her company; she was a quiet little thing, keeping her head down, but he saw how smart she was. He saw the cogs turning behind that set of dark brown eyes, and it had been amusing to see her go face-to-face with the worst Gotham had to offer. And she hadn't even cried! That was more than he could say for the rest of his staff, male servers included.

Leya was quite the mystery.

"Excellent." He told her gruffly, and Leya nodded, breathing a soft sigh of relief. He began to limp towards the seat at the head of the table, motioning towards her. "Please get started on my cognac, love, I'm going to need quite a bit for tonight."

"Absolutely, sir."

It was midnight, now; Penguin's 'friends' would be here soon, if they weren't already. The warm water ran over Leya's hands, and she took the opportunity to glance up into the mirror and survey her look.

That new setting spray she'd picked up last week was a God send, just like Jen had told her. Her eye makeup hadn't moved an inch. But the bags under her eyes were just barely starting to become apparent, and she knew by the end of the shift, she'd be just barely able to make it to her bed before she collapsed.

The warm water felt amazing in the cold bathroom, and she took the opportunity to splash some over the back of her neck. Not worrying about her makeup, of course; that stuff was waterproof, rub proof, etc. It had stayed in place even after she was thrown into the side of a military truck from an explosion about three years ago now, so she doubted anything could take it off.

Still, she found herself tugging at the sleeves of her shirt self-consciously, fingers ghosting over the bare skin where she knew the marks were laying underneath the layer of concealer. If there was one thing she didn't need, it was the Rogue's seeing her marks. They may have been insane criminals, but they were smart insane criminals. At least one would connect the dots.

Finally, she shut off the water and took another deep breath before turning and walking out into the hallway, letting the door shut softly behind her.

"Hey, Leya!" Jen's voice carried over the music, the thumping base nearly vibrating the floor. "Penguin need's you up there; right now!"

"You got it, Jen!" Leya called back, then took off for the stairs, heels clacking as she speed-walked up the steps. Finally, stopping at the door, she knocked twice before slipping inside.

If she was a fainter, that would've been the moment she dropped.

Penguin hadn't been kidding when he said tonight would be different; if anything, tonight was so much worse.

All eyes turned to her as she stepped in, keeping her eyes trained on the table. But she could see them, all of them, out of her peripherals.

Sitting closest to the door was a man in a suit; he had dark hair, and his suit was clean and clearly very expensive. And it only covered half of his body. The other half was charred, burnt, and missing certain parts, like most of the sleeve. His skin was worse, and just seeing it made her nauseous. Not because it was too gruesome, but because she could remember what it smelled like. The sound of flesh and fat being licked away by flames, the smell of charred flesh that had threatened to choke her. His face looked painful; his lips were stretched and stringy, she could see bits of his skull. There was no eyelid over his eye, and any flesh still intact was blistered, angry, and discolored.

Next to him was another man, one that made her want to scratch at her skin. His body wasn't burned, but it was still covered in wounds. Scars, lacerations, cuts, whatever you wanted to call them. They lined his body up and down, some of them organized, some of them all over the place. He was completely bald, and she even saw that he was missing eyebrows, too. He was shirtless, and a part of her was positive he was without shoes; his pants were worn and faded, like they'd been worn in harsh conditions for too long.

Across from him was Penguin, who was looking more tense than she'd ever seen him before. He'd already drained his glass, and was clearly twitching for another. He shifted when she entered the room, eyes watching her carefully as she got closer.

Next to him were two people that Leya had spent her two years living in Gotham praying she would never be within spitting distance of. The woman was dressed in clothes that would have made Leya's stripper cousin shriek with joy; a white, black, and red dress with an impossibly low neckline and pale white face makeup that made her bright red lips stand out more. Her blonde hair was drawn into two ponytails on either side of her head, one dip-dyed red, the other black.

Next to her was an incredibly tall, long-limbed man. His suit was a dark, almost violent purple. The shirt beneath it was green, a color that clashed and hurt her eyes, with a yellow bowtie at his collar. The white face paint wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for the gruesome, angry red scars that stretched from either side of his mouth and had been painted over with a color that reminded her of fresh blood. His eyes were green, and the crazed light bouncing around almost made her turn around and walk out the door without looking back. He had his arm resting on the top of the booth behind the woman, looking the picture of ease.

Directly across from him and closest to the window facing the club was a man that wasn't any less intimidating, but just a little weirder. He was clad in a suit, like an astronaut suit, but with some differences that drew any eye in the room. The collar was wide around his neck, and she could see some kind of white mist blowing towards his blue-tinted skin. His lips were chapped and his skin was patchy and blistered. Hypothermia, the old military medic whispered in the back of her mind. Even without the suit, she could tell he was tall. A faint blue light was glowing from a rectangle at the back of the suit, and she could hear the faintest, baring humming sound coming from it.

And last, but certainly not least, was the biggest…person in the room. She could feel his yellow eyes on her, following her like a predator as she walked towards them. His skin was green, as in actually green, and what was most shocking was that it was scaley. Not completely covered in scales, but she could see their outlines on his skin. His mouth was permanently in a grin of sharp, pointed rows of teeth, teeth that looked like they could eviscerate her within less than a minute. He was tall enough that he stood a whole head, shoulders, and then a few extra inches above the man in the silver suit. He was also wide enough that he took up an entire section of the booth. Had she not been careful, she would have tripped over the reptilian tale that extended out of it.

Stopping at the table, she merely pulled out her pen, kept her face blank, and politely asked, "What can I get you to drink?"

To her biggest surprise, this group didn't converse with her like Penguin's last group of friends. That didn't mean, however, that they weren't paying attention to her.

Whenever she walked in the room to deliver any drinks, she could feel their eyes burning into her skin. She could've sworn Killer Croc sniffed her hair as she was walking by, and Victor Zsasz had been muttering something about her skin. The comment had actually startled her enough to check and make sure all her concealer was still in place when she walked out to get them some more food. Two-Face didn't speak, but any time she passed him a drink or moved near him, he always acknowledged with a grunt or a 'thanks'. She guessed being a lawyer gave you certain manners that were hard to break.

Harley spoke to her, but never in an open-ended way. She was drinking lots of Cosmo's, and seemed to think Leya's hair, which was in very long high ponytail, was the prettiest thing she'd ever seen. Whenever Leya was near her, the harlequin would just run her fingers through it and coo.

The Joker was terrifying. He seemed to think her tense shoulders and clear discomfort of being in close proximity to him was hilarious, but he never made any direct comments at her. Just grinned horrifying at her and watched her movements with amusement, like he was observing a doll. The thought made shivers run up her spine.

The night was slowly winding to a close, and Leya had never been so grateful for it to be four in the morning. One more hour, she just had to survive and suck it up for one more hour and then she could go home and sleep until her shift tonight. Her whole body was aching more than usual on this shift, and she was beginning to think she may have been allergic to something at the club, because she was itchy all over. Like hives were breaking out across her skin.

But when she went to deliver the drinks and some more bread, she found herself wishing that was the case.

As she entered the room, balancing her tray, she caught the end of Two-Face's sentence.

"So, you're saying that fucking Strange has pictures of the mark? From all of us?"

The word mark startled her, but she ignored it and began distributing the glasses, noting this was Penguin's fourth glass of cognac. How was such a small man still standing? He was only about two inches taller than her, and she wasn't that tall.

"We're all in his files, it won't take too long before someone figures it out." Her boss remarked darkly, taking a gulp from his glass. "It's not something that's hard to notice, either."

"How old would they be now? About twenty-three?" Quinn remarked, actually ignoring the Cosmo Leya sat in front of her.

"I could tell you the date is showed up right on the dot: June 30th, 1996 at 1:07 a.m." Killer Croc growled out, and this time, Leya paused.

That's…that's my birthday.

Something started to grow in her stomach and in her chest. It reminded her of the gas chamber training she'd been put through so many times in the military. Riot gas wouldn't kill you, but it hurt like a bitch. It stung your eyes and your skin, seeped into your lungs and made them feel like they were on fire while simultaneously making you believe you physically couldn't breathe.

Just a coincidence, she assured herself, but began quickly finishing her distribution, determined to get out of their eyesight. As she finished, Penguin thanked her half-heartedly and waved her away. She walked quickly to the exit and rounded the corner into the small hallway but paused when her hand was on the doorknob. Call it morbid curiosity or call it pure stupidity; it didn't matter. She pulled the door open, walked onto the stair landing, and slipped her heels off before sliding back into the room as the door shut behind her. The group seemed to pause, as if wanting to make sure she was gone, before they continued.

"The Bat will probably access the files; Dr. Strange has already been locked up." Joker half-snarled, and it was almost dizzying how fast his mood shifted from psychotically happy to terrifyingly furious. "That means he's seen them, and he's connected the dots."

"There's no point." Fries seemed to be attempting to be the voice of reason, which was working about as well as trying to mop up a flood. "We don't even know if it's a girl, a boy, what country they're on, none of it. For all we know, they could be terminally ill and dying."

The word seemed to bring a much darker mood to the table, but Leya couldn't focus on that. She was too busy fighting the panic in her chest, the feeling now feeling like a genuine threat to her safety.

It's just a coincidence, it's just a coincidence, there's no way…

"Well, what about what Eddie said?" Penguin demanded, and Leya allowed herself to peer just barely around the corner to watch him as he suddenly rolled up his white-collared shirt and showed them the back of his right wrist. "It's a flower from Columbia, that probably means whoever they are, they might be there."

No.

It was the only word that went through her head. Vaguely, she recalled denial as one of the first steps of grief, but all she could think as she stared at the familiar black shape on Penguin's wrist was the word that she wanted to believe.

No.

That wasn't a cattleya orchid, her name sake. Her name sake wasn't imprinted on the skin of one of Gotham's most notorious crime bosses, and he wasn't telling them that it had popped up on her date of birth exactly.

No.

The Arkham Rogue's, some of the worlds darkest, most evil, most notorious and violent criminals weren't talking about how they all bore the same mark.

No.

This wasn't happening. This could not be happening.

Still frozen in shock and horror, she couldn't move out of the room or run to safety. She could only watch in terror as Zsasz shifted, showing the same black mark right next to his left shoulder blade. How had she not noticed it before? Now unable to stop, her eyes moved towards Croc, the only other shirtless one at the table, and realized that among the scales was a black patch on his right forearm that was almost impossible to see unless you were looking for it.

Now that she was paying attention, she watched the others. Whenever they mention the mark, their fingers would ghost over different parts of their body. For Quinn, it was her right hip. For Dent, it was the left side of his chest. And for Joker, it was his left thigh, just above his knee.

She was going to be sick.

"Bane already said he's called his contacts down there; no one currently living in any part of Columbia has any discernable marks, at least none that could be traced back to us." Dent growled, then turned so the scarred side of his face was prominent. "But what if whoever was there has already moved?" His voice went deeper, now to a snarl.

"Then that's even worse," Quinn almost whined, "they could be anywhere!"

"No." Freeze denied, shaking his head. "No, they're here."

Leya's breath caught, and she heard the other's pause at the table.

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"Can't you feel it?" The man asked, voice rasping, "Haven't you felt it for the last few years now? The itching, the tingling, the slight ache. Some days it's more prominent, other's it's not. I read some material, the Chain has that affect. So long as they are within the proximity, we'll feel them."

"So, let's use that to hunt them down, then! I'm sick of all the waiting!" Zsasz cried, and Leya almost jumped when the table and glasses banged loudly, like someone had slammed something onto the tabletop.

"We have to be patient." Penguin growled. "Remember the deal. Once we catch them, we decide if they can live or not. If they're too much of a liability, we'll get an assassin to take them out, then kill the assassin to get rid of the Marks Guilt. All will be well."

Unable to take it anymore, Leya glanced down at her watch. They had fifteen minutes until closing, meaning she had to go back in there and ask them for one final round before she started getting ready to leave. She leaned her head back on the wall, taking several deep breaths.

Just go in there, be calm, and then get the fuck out, Leya. You got it, you can do it. If you act weird, they'll know something's up immediately.

Steeling her gaze, the young woman bent down and slipped her heels back on before leaning forward and knocking twice on the door. Opening it, she allowed it to start to fall closed as she rounded the corner, keeping her face as blank as she was physically capable of.

"What can I get you for your last round?"

"Nothing, Leya." Penguin grunted, waving a dismissive hand at her. "I'll have Jen collect your tips tonight, go on and head home."

Without bothering to argue, she nodded, and turned for the door. This time, she physically opened it, walked out onto the stair landing, and closed it behind her.

And then she ran.

She ran down the stairs, down the hallway, and roughly threw her locker open. Wildly shoving her things into her bag, she took off for the back exit. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Jen calling for her, but she spluttered out something about not feeling well and took off outside.

Leya ran and ran; she didn't stop until she was back in her apartment, slamming the door shut and locking ever deadbolt on there, all four. Then, she ran around and made sure all three windows were locked, checking outside and on the fire escape before shutting her curtains, making sure no one could look through them if they wanted.

Finally, she sank onto her bed, brown eyes glued to the book that was open on her nightstand. It was still on the first page of the Chain section, the section she couldn't bring herself to read the last few weeks. She only stared at it, unsure if she was going to cry, throw up, or pass out.

She'd found her marks.

And her marks were already planning her assassination.