Enza had always been pragmatic, a woman who knew how to survive. She'd lived through wars, the rise and fall of regimes, and now, as the world seemed to spiral into the end times, she found herself once again adapting to the times. When the Mark of the Beast system began rolling out, she knew what needed to be done. There was no use fighting something that couldn't be won, not when it could be leveraged to her advantage.

So she made the decision without hesitation. It wasn't an emotional choice, nor did it carry the weight of moral dilemmas that others seemed to grapple with. Enza had lived too long and seen too much to be slowed by ideological purity. The Mark was a tool—an ugly one, perhaps, but a tool nonetheless.

The registration center was bustling the day she decided to take the Mark. A long line of people stood waiting, some with nervous energy, others resigned. Enza had seen this before—during the war, when identification papers were issued, or when ration books became mandatory. She had stood in lines like these as a young girl, waiting with her mother while the bureaucracy churned on, oblivious to the lives it controlled.

The man behind the counter at the Global Community registration center barely glanced at her as he processed her paperwork. The procedure was quick and efficient: a small tattoo on the back of her hand, followed by the implantation of a microchip. The sensation was no more painful than a needle prick.

"There you go, ma'am," the man said, handing her a card with her registration number. "You're all set."

Enza inspected the tattoo, a series of seemingly innocuous numbers and symbols. It looked harmless, but she knew better. The chip in her hand hummed with the promise of total control—over money, movement, survival itself.

But it also gave her freedom.

She thanked the man and walked out into the bustling streets of Chicago. The Mark immediately boosted her credit score, as promised, allowing her restaurant to appear as compliant as any other establishment. With the world falling apart, credit was a strange but effective commodity—especially when you knew the world was on borrowed time. It meant she could stock up on supplies, pay for repairs, and, most importantly, divert resources to the Tribulation Force and other underground groups that relied on her discretion.

In the weeks that followed, her restaurant operated without a hitch. The Global Community guards occasionally dropped by, checking in to ensure everything was in order. But with Enza marked and compliant, their focus never lingered on her staff. This gave her workers the freedom to choose for themselves whether to take the Mark, without the looming threat of being reported. Most of them, pragmatic in their own way, took it—though some hesitated, uncertain about its implications. Enza respected their decisions, but she didn't judge either way. Everyone had to survive in their own way.

Her decision to take the Mark early also allowed her to blend in, to remain above suspicion. She knew that as long as she appeared to be just another law-abiding citizen, she could continue to help those in need. The Tribulation Force members who came to her after hours, or the underground groups bartering for food, all needed someone with access to the system. Someone who wasn't on the radar of the authorities.

And for now, that someone was her.

One evening, after the restaurant had closed and the last of her staff had gone home, Enza sat alone in the back office, going over the day's receipts. The glow of the small lamp cast long shadows across the room, and the quiet buzz of the city outside felt like a distant hum. Business was steady—people still needed to eat, after all—and the extra credit meant she could purchase food in bulk, far more than the restaurant required. The surplus was carefully stashed, distributed to those who needed it under the radar of the Global Community.

But Enza's mind wasn't entirely at ease. She had noticed subtle changes in the world around her—changes that reminded her of the early days of fascism. Nicolae Carpathia, the leader who had initially seemed like a beacon of hope to many, had begun to show cracks in his carefully curated image. His speeches, once inspiring, now carried an undercurrent of authoritarianism. The Global Community's control was tightening, and whispers of dissent were growing louder.

Enza knew the signs. She had lived through the rise of Mussolini, had watched as her country was twisted by the same rhetoric of unity and progress that Carpathia now espoused. It always started with promises of a better world—order out of chaos. And then, slowly, the freedoms were chipped away.

She could see it in the way the Global Community guards interacted with people, the way suspicion crept into everyday life. It was only a matter of time before the system became fully oppressive. For now, the Mark gave her a measure of freedom, but she wasn't naive enough to think that it would last forever.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the back door creaking open. She tensed for a moment but relaxed when she recognized the familiar face of one of the underground couriers she had been helping. A young woman, dressed in plain clothes, slipped into the room, her eyes darting nervously around.

"Nonna Enza," the girl whispered, her voice low. "We got the supplies. The Circle of Steel thanks you."

Enza nodded, satisfied. "Good. Be careful."

The girl hesitated, her gaze falling to the tattoo on Enza's hand. "You took the Mark."

Enza held up her hand, examining it under the lamplight. "I did. It's a tool, just like anything else. A means to an end."

"But that's... evil."

"Evil is when people start treating other people as things. You want an evil tattoo? Ask a holocaust survivor. They have one."