Disclaimer: I don't own Divergent.
I shot a girl today.
It was in the simulation. I never wanted to do it, even knowing it was all fake. I can still see her face in the back of my mind, her nose and jaw blown to bits with one pull of the trigger. What happened was, I was about to put the gun down after noticing it in my hand, but then an invisible force began to act on my arm.
I tried fighting it. I strained against the pull on my arm. Jerked my hand to the side, only to have it whip right back into position. Screamed louder than a human should be capable of, until my ears and throat hurt.
Finally, I remembered Amar's whispered warnings. I closed my eyes and cried out plaintively as the gun went off, controlled by the invisible force and my own actions.
Just seeing what was left of the girl's face was bad enough, but the worst torture was knowing I couldn't fight off that evil force. Now I feel like the biggest coward to ever exist.
If I didn't experience that total failure, I might feel more confident in not taking the factionless woman's advice. I might just convince myself that I have far better things to do than read the book she gave me, like train for my next Dauntless milestone.
But I'm done with training for now.
I dig the copy of the century-old book out from under my mattress. The title comes back to me at once. Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community? Written by Martin Luther King, Jr.
I skim the cover of the book with my fingers, as if scared to open it up and read whatever's inside. The man in the photograph below the title must be the author. His dress is simple but formal, like an average council member's. Yet that thoughtfulness in his eyes belongs to an Erudite, not an Abnegation. And the way he leans in toward all those microphones is characteristic of a Candor about to make a weighty argument.
Curiosity gets me to turn the first couple pages. Clearly, this book had many borrowers. Every single page is either partially torn, heavily creased, stained with coffee or grease, or a combination of all three. But the text has stayed intact, old as it is. There's a title page that's pretty unassuming, then a second photo of the author. Then a year of publication, 1968.
Almost two hundred years ago? My heart rate picks up a little when I imagine what I'm about to read. It actually makes me forget how mad I was at the factionless woman. I flip to the next page.
"To the committed supporters of the civil rights movement…"
The words stop me where I am. Civil rights movement may be a little-known term to those in Chicago today, but my mom made sure to tell me about it when I was a kid. To tell me all that she knew, anyway, which sadly wasn't much. Hardly anyone knows the history of the old country, the "United States of America". Chicago was part of it, but when you compare it to the rest of the mainland, it was so small as to be negligible.
The population was hundreds of times bigger, and there were new citizens coming in from dozens more countries all over the globe. I remember Eric talking about how his ancestors moved here from Thailand. Well, Mom told me our ancestors arrived long before that, from a continent called Africa.
I asked her why they decided to move. She couldn't say.
She did tell me more, though. In the olden days, people who looked like me, Mom, Marcus, and Bri, the teaching assistant at my school, were called "Black". People who looked like my ex-girlfriend from Dauntless and my former Technology professor were called "white". People who looked like Mia were called "Hispanic". And people who looked like Eric and his family were called "Asian".
Mom said that in those days, people were split up according to appearance and skin color. It was like living in a faction before the age of the factions. You just had to switch out the word faction for the word race. The whiter you were, the higher up you were on the societal ladder. Sure, there were poor white people, but compared to poor Black people? There were more possibilities offered to them by society, more opportunities to rise out of poverty. Hispanics and Asians were considered to be in the middle, not quite white, but close.
There were strict laws forbidding Black people from marrying white people. On a public bus, white people got to sit up front, while Black people had to sit at the back. White children attended separate, better funded schools than Black children. A Black man couldn't even use the same drinking fountain as a white man.
Those were hard times for anyone not white enough for society, Mom said. Luckily, things were able to change. It was a slow process, but eventually, the tide turned for people of marginalized races in the United States. A few dissatisfied people got together and created a movement. They marched in the streets and staged protests and boycotts. They forced the U.S. government to see the error of its ways. They convinced the government to pass laws making it illegal to discriminate based on race.
I was glad the story had a satisfying ending. But I had to ask why my mom was telling me all about it, since the problem had already been solved.
Mom's answer was simple. The issue may have been taken care of, but who's to say it won't happen again, in the distant or even near future? The best way to stop this kind of thing from happening is to look at history and learn from it.
I agreed, so I asked for all the details. Tragic that even Mom didn't know much beyond what she'd already told me. Just like when I was growing up, the council made an effort to withhold information that could be construed as divisive. They wanted all kids, Black, white, and every color in between, to be given the same lessons on Chicago history. Your people went through the same struggles as the relatives of the kid sitting to your left, and vice versa. We were supposed to be "one people", with a "common history", "in solidarity" with each other. That was the main reason for Mom missing all the details.
But I have the untold parts of the story right here, in my hands, and I'll be reading the exact words of someone who witnessed that great change in U.S. society. It's a miracle that only God could've set in motion. I turn to the next page in the book.
I wouldn't be surprised if a factionless child swiped this book from their parent at some point, because all of the pages making up the introduction are completely unreadable. The words are too blotted over with red, blue, and green crayon, rendering them useless. I decide to skip the introduction.
I turn the pages until I reach the foreword. My heart is beating with anticipation. Of course, I still kind of dislike the factionless woman, but I have to thank her for what she inadvertently did. She, without even knowing it, gave me the answers to questions I've had since I was a child.
Feeling grateful for that, I start to read.
The clock on the bedside table tells me two hours have passed. Time really goes by quick when you're absorbed in doing one thing. I should start to feel tired, even sleepy. But I can't keep a lid on my emotions, let alone sleep. My feelings and thoughts keep on clashing with each other. Parts of me feel like they've been cut and seared, like a demonstrator overwhelmed by tear gas. Other parts have flooded with euphoria. Gratitude rushes through me when I visualize my ancestors getting back their freedom, but then grief threatens to override it when I think of how many years I spent not knowing about them.
The Erudite sing the praises of knowledge, and now I get why they do.
Knowledge was something I was desperate for as I slogged through chapter one. I realized how much the council and their supporters kept from us. The name "Lyndon Johnson" didn't ring a bell, nor "Selma", nor "Alabama", nor "Watts". But I'm pretty good at making inferences. I could guess what "Voting Rights Act" referred to. From that point on it was a matter of piecing the clues together to form the rest of the story Mom began.
I nodded along as King laid out all the hypocrisies of the U.S. government, and of some of the white allies within the movement. I could understand what he was saying, though I never spent one day in the old country, he was skilled at putting down in words everything he observed. I had to admire his optimism when he encouraged the Black people of America to still hold out hope for the future, because the trajectory of progress isn't as straight as one thinks it is. I envied his fortitude when he wouldn't budge on his stance in favor of nonviolence, even when he was able to empathize with Stokely Carmichael and the other advocates for Black Power. I was impressed at his thorough exposure of the history of racism in America, though I had to cringe while reading the bit about the white liberal and what she said to King.
Then I reached the beginning of the fourth chapter.
I didn't expect a bunch of feel-good anecdotes. Mom had already hinted at the unpleasant truth. But I believed I was somewhat prepared. I wasn't.
How prepared can you be, when you're finding out that the information your government fed you on your own history, was all a bunch of lies?
No, my ancestors didn't decide to move from Africa to the United States. They were forced to. Forced onto ships on the coasts of the motherland, by white people who saw them as things to be bought and sold. My ancestors were not migrant workers, they were enslaved. Their families weren't dysfunctional by nature, family separation was forced on them, violently. My foremothers weren't constantly losing their children, their children were ripped from them by men who viewed themselves as their masters. My forefathers weren't absent from their kids' lives, as if they somehow had a choice to not be there. They were systematically separated from their wives, from their kids, from their entire families.
Reading about what actually happened, I felt like taking the time to grieve, right then and there. To grieve the ancestors I never knew about, but should've. There's so much I should've known. The culture, the language, the remarkable history, the music, art, and literature, the community that the council made sure I could never have. And the people from our history, too. All the leaders, activists, and artists who defied the morally bankrupt society they lived in, like Langston Hughes, Booker T. Washington, and Mahalia Jackson. I wish I would've recognized all those names.
I feel an unknowable pain thinking about this. I'm angry, too. At the factionless woman, for one, because shouldn't she have known I would be hurt by this? Did she want me to be, when she ordered me to read this book that says over and over how my own people were disrespected, discriminated against, and dehumanized by society? Did she think knowing all that would humble me somehow?
And what about Abnegation? I'm thinking specifically of the council. Including Marcus, but not just Marcus. Do they know what once stood here, before the Chicago of today? Do they know about the United States? That it probably still has a debt to pay? Did they hear what King said about how the U.S. owes the Black man something special, after literal centuries of depriving him, and then did they run away from that obligation? I imagine they refused to pay their debts, then they made up this bullshit about everyone being "equal", so they could ignore that we were never equal in the first place.
It hurt to think about, yeah. But I still longed for that precious knowledge, the information that would tell me how my ancestors won their fight. My mind was urging me to just finish the book, my personal feelings on Abnegation be damned. So I picked it up, found the page I'd been on, and sped through it in record time, all the way to the closing sentence.
I shut the book. I set it down on my mattress, unable to do much else except think.
It turns out our story has yet to be finished. Did the United States ever get to a point where its monstrous past was fully reckoned with? Not in the book, and I'm willing to bet that to this day, it hasn't. I don't know if King's closing thoughts left me with more hope or sorrow. I felt hopeful reading his words on the collective power of the Black community in America, and how those with power ought to use it to abolish poverty and guarantee everyone an income, and how our lives are ultimately intertwined with the lives of people in every other nation, so it is our duty to ensure that there is justice worldwide. The bitterness returned when I remembered that there's no other nation now, nothing but this broken-down city we live in, because of the war that destroyed most of the world. Turns out the message never got through to the generations that lived after 1968.
As for Martin Luther King, Jr. himself? He was assassinated. He never got to see where America went. I might be seeing the leftovers, though, the last stronghold of a diminished nation still reeling from its past.
This thought is a too-heavy weight on my mind. I put the book away, opting to just lie in bed until sleep finally, blessedly claims me.
When I sleep, I dream. I dream I'm standing with the other transfers next to the stage where they'll display our final rankings on a screen. Then the rankings themselves go up, and my worst nightmare comes true.
Eric's in the top three, but I'm dead last. I'm factionless now.
I'm too devastated to talk. My whole world's already ended. Silently I look to my best friend for consolation, but he's too busy to notice me. He and the others who made it are exchanging nice words, big smiles, and high fives. It's their world now, and I just happen to be in it.
The dream fast-forwards to many months later, when I'm living on the streets in the factionless part of town. It's pouring outside, and the heavy rain's seeping into my threadbare clothes, into my hair and my scalp, into my skin and my bones. There's nowhere I can take shelter without another factionless person throwing me out.
So I just slump against a deteriorating section of wall, letting the water beat down on me. I'm thinking this isn't that bad, once you get used to it. Then suddenly, another annoyance comes out of nowhere. A Dauntless boy who can't be a day older than seventeen saunters up to me. Seems like this is only his first day on patrol, because he hasn't got his gun in hand, instead it's hanging on his belt.
What is being carried in his hands is a big white sign. "Fuck the Factionless" is printed on it in large black typeface. Obviously trying to provoke me, the boy holds the sign right in front of my nose and pushes it closer to my face. His grin's the biggest I've ever seen on any Dauntless patrolman.
I consider kicking out at him, or punching him, but I don't. If there are other Dauntless patrolling the area, they won't be helping me. I'm trying to figure out what to do, then someone else inexplicably appears.
It's Eric! The insignia on the front of his uniform indicates that he's a Dauntless leader-in-training. He appears to shout at the boy, letting me know he's in charge of monitoring all the patrolmen. A stern scowl on his face, he tears the sign from the boy's grip and hurls it onto the ground. It lands in a large puddle and gets soaked.
The boy creeps away, his grin now gone. Eric gives him no more attention and instead stares at me, as if he wants to ask, Are you okay?
But he never actually says it. He does nothing but give me a pitying glance, the look one might give to a drowned cat. And then he turns and leaves me on the ground in the rain and walks off with my attacker. It turns out my former best friend and the factionless-hating Dauntless have much more in common with each other, than Eric has with me.
He's a coward, I accuse him silently. He is, as Martin Luther King, Jr. described, "uneasy with injustice but unwilling yet to pay a significant price to eradicate it."
He moves on with the boy and doesn't return. Their identical footsteps blend with the sound of the rain. And then I wake, with a tingling in my head, a ringing in my ears, and only one thought.
The factionless woman was right.
I need to go outside.
Not out of the Dauntless compound, as first of all, that would be too risky, and second of all, I don't want a repeat of my encounter with the factionless woman. I just wanna get out of the dormitory. I wanna be in a public place where there's lots of people, people I can talk to.
I end up in the Pit, where I just wander mindlessly, looking for no one, really. But I stop when I see Tori.
"Hey, Tori," I say, waving at her. Her tattoo place is open, but I don't see any waiting clients. She's just sitting out front smoking a cigarette. Her lips form a smile when she recognizes me.
"Hi, Abnegation," she greets me. "Saw you going through another sim this morning. Still hanging on?"
Despite everything, I laugh. "Sorry, but nope. Lost my grip on my own sanity a long time ago."
"Sounds reasonable," says Tori, taking another drag on her cigarette. "Me, I've been fully Dauntless for over two decades, and I still get a mini-PTSD attack whenever anyone mentions those simulations."
"Give it ten or so years and I'll be able to relate," I say to her, half joking. Before I know it, Tori's inviting me to sit down inside her tattoo place. She offers me some of her favorite mint tea. Of course, I say yes. After a few sips of the steaming drink, the side effects of reading the factionless woman's favorite book have almost been washed away. I feel renewed and ready to open up.
It's why I have to take the opportunity to ask Tori about something crazy I overheard. I put my cup down and look her in the eye. "Tori," I start, "can I ask you about something?"
Tori nods and smiles. "Sure," she says.
Her friendliness does nothing to help my nerves. I fiddle with my hands for a moment, wondering how to approach this possibly taboo subject. "You said you had a brother named George," I say, recalling the name Tori dropped in casual conversation that night, when I was getting my first tattoo. I go on. "Didn't he have some kind of… special talent?"
Something hardens behind Tori's eyes, but she answers anyway. "Yeah," she says. "Why?"
"I think…" I bite my lip at the very last second, preventing the words from slipping out. Amar's voice is blaring at an impossible volume inside my head, shouting at me to not reveal my most dangerous secret. But I can't keep it in any longer. I want a clear answer to the question of why it's so dangerous. And who better to ask than someone who might've experienced it herself?
I finish my sentence. "I have what he had," I tell Tori.
The heaviest weight in the world is lifted off my chest when I say that. Let whatever happens next, happen. So what if I'll be in trouble with the Dauntless leaders for "cheating"? At least I won't be hiding anymore.
But Tori doesn't make a move to alert the nearest authority figure. She just keeps sitting there, her eyes widening to a ridiculous size. "Did you tell anyone?" she half whispers, half shouts.
I shake my head. "Only Amar knows," I tell her.
Tori's posture changes instantly, so she looks a lot more relaxed. "That's a relief," she says. Good to know she's probably on my side, same as Amar. She points to a door near the back that must lead to her apartment. "Come with me. I'll tell you a story you need to hear."
I walk just a couple paces behind her, scared for my life but also excited to learn some deadly secrets.
"Goddamn!" Eric slaps at the keys with a frustrated hand, setting off a chain reaction of wrong notes. He lets out a noisy breath. "I keep screwing it up."
Mia looks sympathetic. But it seems like at any minute, she'll start laughing at him. "What are you talking about?" she asks innocently. "You played beautifully."
Eric begs to differ. The "Fantaisie Impromptu" is a piece that will forever haunt him. It's the piece he messed up during one fateful Erudite Youth Piano Competition. Yet he still chose to play it for Mia.
They were just walking along and talking, blowing off some steam after the day's simulations, when Mia caught sight of this empty conference hall. She thought it would be the perfect place to sit down and relax without being seen, and Eric had to agree. When they pushed the door open all the way, a wide shaft of afternoon light fell on this dusty old grand piano. It looked like someone had moved it, so it wouldn't be in the way.
Mia instantly started pleading with Eric to play something for her, to play the most challenging piece he knew. Just one look at those puppy-dog eyes, and Eric knew he'd obey. He sat down on the bench and called back memories that were buried ages ago. Memories of where to place his fingers, how to maintain the correct tempo, and how to at least look like he's feeling the music.
Too bad he couldn't remember which notes to hit.
The first time he screwed up, he just plowed through, as any piano teacher would say to do. But the second time shook Eric's confidence, and just like during the competition, he had to stop.
He looks over at Mia. "If you think that was beautiful," he says, "you should hear my sister play. When we were kids, she'd beat me in every competition."
"Well, we're not gonna bump into her anytime soon," Mia points out. "She's staying in Erudite, right?"
"Yeah, where she belongs." Eric grins.
"Good riddance," Mia says with a short laugh. The bad taste in Eric's mouth quickly evaporates. He can't help but smile when he feels Mia sliding onto the seat next to him, the warm flesh of her arm heating his shoulders. Just her presence is enough to cure all the ills in the world.
"Here," Eric says, gesturing to his spot on the bench. "Wanna have a turn?"
Mia shakes her head. "No, thanks. I've never played. But I've got…" She pauses, plunging a hand into one of her pockets. A second later, she pulls out some unrecognizable technological gadget. "This."
Eric eyes it curiously. "What is it?"
"A little gift from me," Mia tells him. She turns her hand over, letting the thing drop onto Eric's palm. "My recording device. I've stored hundreds of audio files on there. I don't really need it now, so if you ever think about saving a few recordings of yourself playing the piano, you can go right ahead."
"Thanks," Eric says, giving his partner a grateful smile.
"And if you ever miss me," Mia teases, "you can pull it out…" She retrieves the device and waves it tantalizingly in the air. "And you'll get to hear a piece of me."
Eric laughs. "Ooh, how romantic. Tons of static and background noise."
"You never know, you might need it someday," Mia says in her mysterious way. She shrugs her shoulders a bit. "I won't be here forever."
"Now that's going too far," Eric snaps, faking getting angry. Mia catches on and cracks up. She throws the device back at Eric, and it bounces off his chin and falls into his lap.
"Sorry, sorry," Mia giggles, the words barely able to be heard over both her laughter and Eric's. They haven't been spending too much time together, but a pleasant future's sure to lie ahead, as long as they can last through these torture sessions they call simulations.
Tori's apartment looks the same as it did the first time I followed her there, just before she gave me my tattoo. Her kitchen is, thankfully, clean, but the appliances look outdated and the faucets are heavily rusted. The coffee table in her living room can't even be seen underneath all the papers on top. Each slightly wrinkled sheet displays a different tattoo design. Some are plain black, others are every color of the rainbow. Some are easy to duplicate, others look damn near impossible to even draw.
One design has my attention the second I look at it. It resembles an amalgamation of all the faction symbols, Dauntless, Candor, Amity, Abnegation, and Erudite. Each symbol is distinct and recognizable, but they've been combined in such a way that it almost seems they're growing into each other.
Weird. I've never given much thought to this, but in all the works of art I've ever seen that contained an image of the faction symbols together, there's been a heavy emphasis on each one staying separate from the others.
Tori doesn't give me time to wonder over her choice. Once we're both comfortable on her couch, she launches into the story of her brother, George, and how he was allegedly murdered by the Dauntless leaders. With the help of the Erudite leadership, of course. It all started when George began to get good at the simulations. Like, ridiculously good. To the point where literally everyone was whispering about him and stealing glances at him when he'd walk by. But the trouble didn't start until the Dauntless leaders got involved.
One of them asked to sit in as George was going through his final simulation. The next day, the boy was suddenly and unexpectedly reported missing. Just hours passed until his dead body was found in the chasm. A suicide, the Dauntless leaders ruled. Nobody in George's initiate class believed it, but as the years went by, only Tori stayed convinced that it was a murder.
I really don't understand. A kid was killed because he was accused of cheating in the simulations?
Tori thinks the true motive was deeper than that. Apparently there's a whole class of people who are naturally resistant to simulations. George was likely one of them, and I probably am, too. I'm just about to ask why our government cares so much that some people can't be fooled by a simulation, then it all clicks together, like dozens of keys to corresponding locks, in my mind.
Of course the government would care. If a person took their aptitude test and got Abnegation, but they only pretended to act selfless, because they were aware during the simulation, that would suggest a faction traitor hiding in plain sight among the Abnegation. Someone whose beliefs don't fully align with those of their chosen faction. Someone who might end up influencing the rest of the faction to change, irreversibly.
Or… someone who might start a revolution.
Tori asks me to picture a dishonest Candor sweet-talking Jack Kang into accepting half-truths and lies by omission, in order to appeal to the more sensitive Amity. To imagine an Erudite who failed in school arguing in favor of "street smarts" over traditional "book smarts", so they'll look good to the roughhousing, tough-talking Dauntless youth. To think about what would happen if somebody on the council suggested prioritizing individualism to some degree in Abnegation, so each member of the community would be better equipped to serve others.
Now I'm wondering if being a "faction traitor" isn't such a bad thing. If I'm the one who's stuck in a toxic mindset, believing I'd have to go from one end of the spectrum to another. From rigid Abnegation, to violent Dauntless. Trading one major flaw for another, because a large part of me believed I had only two options. Use the power Dauntless combat training gave me for senseless violence, as the leadership commands, or have no power at all like when I was in Abnegation, the faction that's so inclined to nonviolence that they'll do anything to decrease the tension, including let an abuse victim continue to get beat on in the background.
I remember a specific line from the book, where King said that what we need "is a realization that power without love is reckless and abusive and that love without power is sentimental and anemic." What I needed, from the beginning, was not to shed my Abnegation self in order to take back my power in Dauntless. No, what I needed was to know I don't have to choose one or the other. I shouldn't have to turn selfish in order to be brave, I can be both.
I just can't be under the watchful eye of the Dauntless leadership.
Tori can see how disconcerted I am. "Are you all right?" she asks. "I know it's a lot to take in."
"I'm good," I lie. I realize I'm shaking my head slowly, I'm just so bewildered. "Just can't believe Ms. Matthews supports them. I mean, the people hunting down the…"
"Divergent," Tori finishes.
"Yeah, Divergent," I say quickly. I let the word roll around on my tongue. Bet most people in this city's never heard it before, and probably because the council doesn't want them to.
Tori is staring me down. "You know the leader of Erudite?"
"No," I say, "but my friend Eric does. She was his teacher in grade school." It's a huge bomb to drop, and I fully expect a negative reaction from Tori when she hears it. Fortunately, she barely reacts.
"Oh, I see," she says. "You and Eric are still close?"
"Yeah," I say. "I just hope we stay close. Initiation's been absolutely hectic."
I want to just leave it at that. I don't say anything about the rising tensions between Eric and me, or the harsh way in which he said he wouldn't go back for me, or how the secrets I'm keeping from him are slowly piling up. No need to complicate something that's already too complicated.
Tori's reply is one I don't expect. "If you're drifting apart," she says, "maybe that's for the best. Keep that at the back of your mind."
As I'm stumbling out of her apartment, a myriad of thoughts mix together in my brain. I'm thinking of George and his suspicious death, the factionless woman and her talk of revolution, and Martin Luther King, Jr. and everything he wrote in the book.
One thing I do know. There are some truths out there that, once you happen upon them, your perspective will be forever warped. Or maybe it's simply me that's warped. Perhaps I'm focusing too much on not going too far, and I need to learn to push myself to the right extremes.
The council members would be fuming mad right now, if they could hear Jeanine discussing that thing they've always opposed. A Dauntless-Erudite team-up. Two of the most compatible factions in the city being in sync, not just existing opposite each other. The brain of Erudite supplementing the brawn of Dauntless, and the other way around. Constantly patching up their respective weaknesses. Both factions helping to resupply the other with resources and people.
It's far from orthodox, and the Abnegation will surely try to shut it down, but it's radical and different and new, and that's why Eric's listening in.
It's sad that Jeanine isn't yet willing to go beyond a shallow debate. She tries so hard to reach the graying man before her, but the former Dauntless leader won't answer any question directly. All too soon, time is up and those in attendance are asked to leave. There's going to be a conference that only the current Dauntless leaders can sit in on.
Eric shuffles out of the auditorium, on the heels of a middle-aged woman with a mohawk. Most of the Dauntless who showed up to listen were older. Around Jeanine's age, not Eric's. Is anyone younger than thirty even paying attention? The results of this debate could affect their futures.
Eric's mind is so fixated on what Jeanine said, that he fails to notice the Dauntless-born initiate watching him like a hawk. She puts a hand to her mouth when she sees where he's coming from.
One thing he does know. There are some truths out there that, once you happen upon them, your perspective will be made better for life.
AN: Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community? is the property of Beacon Press and Martin Luther King, Jr. I do not own any of the content in this chapter that either directly quotes or references this work.
You'll notice that I went out of my way to make all the racially ambiguous characters in the book POC in this fic. Yes, that was an intentional choice on my part, because I'm honestly tired of Hollywood assuming that in books, ambiguous is the same as white.
Next chapter will be posted soon. Leave a review please guys.