Chapter Text
Sevika is having a shit day.
Well. Shittier than usual.
The sole of her boot broke off this morning, Silco's contact never showed up at the docks, and her favorite food place was closed by the time she passed through the Lanes. And to make matters worse, it started raining. Not only is she tired and hungry, but now she's soaked through to the bone.
So when she cuts through an alley to shave off a few minutes of travel on the way home, she really isn't in the mood for the voice that calls out to her. Beggars are a cog a-fucking-dozen in the Lanes, and she ignores them on instinct. There are worse things in the shadows that know her name, after all.
But for some reason, she decides to take the bait tonight. Turns back to look at the ground then stills at the sight of you, bathed in the neon lights of the city’s beating heart. There's no hiding the roundness of your stomach beneath your shirt, or the gauntness of your cheeks. Clothes dirty, hair unwashed, as if you were thrown out on the street like an unwanted stray.
The state of you makes her sick to her stomach. Angry at the world. For a brief moment, she remembers what—who—she fights for: the little people like you that often fade into the background. The chaos of the chem-barons and the Enforcers sniffing around tend to take center stage.
“I'm sorry for bothering you, but do you have any food?” Your voice comes out weak and raspy, desperation splitting each syllable at the seams. “I don't want money, I just—I'm starving and nobody will help me.”
Sevika nods toward the swell of your belly, so round it looks painful. “Where's the dad?”
You inhale a shaky breath, face twisting up in a pained grimace before hardening back to neutral stone. “I don't know. Don't even know who he is, actually, but I—I didn't ask for this. I swear, I'm responsible. I would never—fuck, it doesn't even matter. I'm sorry.”
She wonders how many times you've plead your case to passersby in an attempt to convince them to save you. How many actually believed your story.
But there’s no faking that grieving look in your eye, and the implication of how you ended up here changes things.
There are very few situations in this world that affect Sevika, but injustice pains her most. She’s seen the worst of this city a million times over, has contributed to the chaos in ways she isn't proud of, but she still holds a place in her heart for the people who got the shit end of the stick. People like you, and the kids starving in the streets, and everybody else cursed enough to be born in the hell she calls home.
“Get up,” she says, a bit more gruff than she means to, and your eyes widen in fear. You curl in on yourself as tightly as you can, arms folded over your belly. “You want food or not?”
As soon as the words leave her mouth, she regrets it. A disaster waiting to happen, appeasing a walking liability. There’s a reason why she doesn't bother with attachments or relationships outside of work and gambling.
But then you struggle to your feet, fighting gravity as you clutch at the brick wall for leverage, and she holds out a hand to steady you.
Her first mistake.
You grasp her fingers and gaze at her with eyes that gleam, like an outstretched hand is your first ever taste of tenderness.
(It probably is. Nothing surprises her anymore.)
As she leads you through the crowded streets, you turn into a skittish thing, eyes darting over the crowd, clinging a bit too hard to her wrist. When you step on the back of her boot, it only takes one venomous glare for you to keep your distance until you reach your destination: a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. Big portions for cheap, in exchange for shit service and mediocre food. The only place open besides bars this late, and she wouldn't dare drag you into one of those.
She corrals you over to an empty table and pulls out the seat against the back wall for you to take. You glance around a moment, flinching at the slam of the front door, before easing yourself down into the chair, a hand protective over your stomach.
She wonders why. Why you’d care so much about something borne from an awful situation. It doesn’t make any sense.
The waitress strolls up to the table with two paper menus, eyes landing on her with a sultry smile. “Well, well, well. Sevika. Haven’t seen you around in a while.” The waitress—Zaya, maybe? her face seems familiar—looks you up and down with a curl of her upper lip. “Seems you caught yourself a stray.”
You bow your head at the comment, soothing over the mess of your hair in an attempt to make yourself more presentable. Sevika shouldn’t care as much as she does, but you’re just… pitiful. Pathetic, if she wants a more apt, less kind term to use.
“Something like that.” Beneath the table, her metal hand tightens into a fist, irritation burning hot inside her chest. Not in the mood for bullshitting. “I want my usual.” She glances over at you. “Double order.”
The waitress stands around for a long moment in an effort to strike up conversation, but Sevika pays her no mind, fully interested in the scratch marks on the table. Eventually, she leaves with a frustrated huff.
A long silence passes between the two of you. She isn't about to engage in small talk, and you look ready to burst into tears. Fine by her. Conversation was never her strong suit anyway.
You look up at her, then away, then back, a focused furrow to your brow. She opens her mouth to snap at you—*say what you want to say—*but you speak first.
“I know you. Well, of you,” you say, voice so quiet she almost can’t hear you over the white noise of the restaurant. “You’re popular.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
You heave a tired sigh, palm drawing rhythmic circles over your belly. “I don’t have any way to repay you.”
“No shit. That's the whole point.”
“I’ve heard this place is expensive.”
Sevika snorts. “This is the cheapest food in the Lanes.” Her eyes dart down to your stomach, visible just over the lip of the table. “One bowl can feed two people.”
You fall silent, avoiding her gaze to instead stare a hole through the wall near her head. “Thank you.”
A different waitress drops off the food (good fucking riddance, Zara), and you immediately tuck into your bowl, inhaling the noodles like you haven't eaten in weeks, dripping sauce all over your area of the table.
After you almost choke on a too-large bite, Sevika rips the bowl away from you with a growl of irritation. “Slow down. You're making a mess.”
You blink at her in surprise, eyes wide and misty, and grab a nearby napkin to clean your face then mop up your splattering of sauce. “Sorry. I’m just hungry.”
“You still have manners, don't you?” Despite the bite of her words, she takes pains to slide the bowl slowly across the table.
Sevika doesn’t know how to be soft. Never really had the patience, the capacity for it. She doesn't surround herself with people like you who require a tender hand. The kind of people who fear their own shadow.
She should get up, pay the tab, and leave. She did her good deed for the decade. She doesn't owe you anything.
But she can't will her legs to move. Thinks, instead, of you waddling back to that alleyway, of the pouring rain, of someone a lot more cruel than her stumbling upon your defenseless form in the middle of the night.
This is exactly what her old man used to warn her about: the inconvenience of companionship. One big distraction designed to veer her away from the end goal.
And yet—
you sit back in your chair with a content smile, shoulders relaxing from their spot beside your ears, and you look at her like she hangs the stars in your sky
—she doesn't move.
“Feel better?” she asks, elbow balanced atop the table as she adjusts her weight in her seat. She doesn't fidget, but the reverent look you aim her way gets her the closest she's ever been in her life.
Nothing good ever follows me. Get out while you still can.
You nod. “Yeah, but I think I ate too much.”
She glances down at your bowl. You licked it clean.
A wave of pride swells within her at the sight of you: eyelids already drooping, hands curling your jacket tighter around your shoulders. If you could, you'd no doubt be purring.
Cute.
Her face twists into a scowl, silently shooing away the thought as she rises to her feet, and you stumble in an effort to follow her.
“Are you—” you pause, hands clasping tight over your chest. “Do you know anywhere I can stay? At least to get out of the rain tonight?”
Sevika’s eyes narrow, gaze inspecting the features of your face for any hint of… she doesn't know, really. Manipulation, dishonesty maybe. But all that stares back at her is a woman with one big baby-sized responsibility and no means to care for it. You're scared shitless. There's no faking that.
Damn. Looks like she's got herself a stray for the night.
“Come on,” she grumbles, curling a hand around your upper arm.
She pays at the counter, your presence hovering just behind her elbow, and ignores the goodbyes from staff as she leads you out the front door.
“Where are we going?” you ask, a bit breathless from the speed of your walk in an attempt to catch up to her.
Fuck, she just wants to go home.
“My place. Just for tonight.”
You nod your head, reaching again for the comfort of her wrist, and she lets you. Too exhausted to argue.
The walk to her apartment takes longer than usual, your stride stilted from the bulk of your belly, fatigue weakening your legs.
Sevika's never really thought much about where she lives in regards to safety, but the shadows swallow the darkness tonight with you in tow. The locals know not to fuck with her, but they don't know you, and they leer in a way that makes her hackles raise.
She tugs you closer when a burly man steps off the stoop of his house, calling out to her.
“Whatcha got there, big girl?”
“Your head in a box if you don't fuck off.” A matter-of-fact statement. A promise.
He laughs, high-pitched and nervous, arms raised in placation. “Alright, alright, I hear ya. Not in the mood for jokes.”
She stops in her tracks and squares her shoulders, ignoring your quiet oof as you collide with her back. Because no, she's really not in the mood for jokes.
The man fidgets in place a moment as if weighing his options, before he backs away to the front door of his home. “Alright. I'll be seeing you.”
When the front door closes, she releases her hold on your arm and begins walking again.
“Who was that?” you whisper, fingers trembling as they reattach to her wrist.
“Nobody. Let’s go.”
A few minutes later, you're first inside her apartment, shivering from the chill of the rain. You look around the barebones living room—a broken-down couch, a scuffed chair in the corner, various tools scattered over the coffee table. Very little in regards to decoration.
Sevika doesn't like coming home. The emptiness tends to swallow her whole. Nothing waiting for her but an empty bed and the sprawl of silence.
“You need a shower,” she says, discarding her cloak over the back of the couch.
“I don't have any clothes.”
“I know.”
She just wants to sleep. Would rather not be dealing with this when a busy day looms ahead, but she couldn't just leave you there. A decision that goes against every cell in her body, every lesson she learned in her youth, but she couldn’t.
She just couldn’t.
She fetches you a worn shirt and a pair of boxer briefs then shows you to the bathroom, and you whisper your thanks as she tosses a spare towel on the sink.
You stay in there a while, and she passes the time by tinkering with her prosthetic.
Finally, the door swings open and you walk out, dirty clothes bundled under your arm.
“I finally feel like a person again.” You tug down the hem of her your shirt, fabric stretched over your belly. “Thank you.”
She grunts in response, and you take a seat across from her at the kitchen table, head tilting as you watch her work. You don't say anything. Just follow the movement of her hands.
The next time she looks up, your cheek rests on your folded arms atop the table, eyes closed, shoulders rising with each breath you inhale.
Asleep. Poor, helpless thing.
She considers leaving you there, doesn't want to bother with setting you up on the couch, but her legs are already moving before she makes a decision either way.
Carrying you is difficult given the bulk of your stomach. She holds you like a thing made to be broken, soft and careful, the cold metal of her prosthetic cradling your neck, her other arm beneath the bend of your knees. Walks slow to keep from waking you, enraptured by the rapid-fire expressions that flicker over your face. Anger, pain, sadness, anger, fear, fear, fear—
Must be a horrible dream.
She lays you down on the couch then covers you with a threadbare blanket found in the back of her closet. Takes a seat on the coffee table and thinks about what the fuck she’s going to do with you.
You can’t stay here, but she can’t let you live on the street either. So there’s the issue of finding someone to house you, but she can count the people she trusts on one hand (with five fingers left over). The shelters are already full-up, and under zero circumstances will she go to Silco for help.
She finds herself in a mess of her own fucking creation.
You roll onto your side with a dreamy groan, hand ghosting over your belly in your sleep. She wonders if you even want the kid. If you spend your days grieving a life you’ll never get to have because there's no other option.
Sevika doesn’t remember much of her own mom. Died when she was young giving birth to a little brother that failed to survive through the night—a waste in her eyes. That was her first brush with grief, the foundation of beliefs that her old man raised her with: the harsh life of the Undercity holds no room for love, or compassion, or attachment.
If the Enforcers had called for a doctor like they were supposed to, her mom might still be alive. But she doesn’t like to dwell on the past, on what-ifs. No damn point in it.
She pulls out a cigarette in hopes that the smoke will drown out the memories. Looks over at your sleeping form. Looks down at the cigarette. Heaves a frustrated sigh then puts it back in its metal case.
You're an inconvenient little thing. A stray with too many stipulations. No more than a headache.
(If she adjusts the blanket to cover up your cold, bare feet on her way out the front door, nobody has to know.)
The next morning, you’re half-asleep on the couch when she approaches you, arms stretched overhead, mouth opened wide in a yawn.
“Listen up.” She takes a seat on the coffee table, resting both elbows on her knees. “I’ll be gone for a few days, so if you’re staying here, we need to go over some ground rules.”
You snap to attention, face bright as the sun, scrambling to sit up. “Staying here? Really?”
“If you follow the rules.”
“Yeah! Yes, I—“ your brows tilt upwards, tone turning desperate, “whatever you want, I’ll do it. I swear.”
A part of her—the space reserved for optimism collecting cobwebs—almost believes you.
She holds up a finger. “Don't touch anything that isn't yours.” Another. “Don't go out at night, and when you do go out, don’t talk to anybody.” Another. “Don't answer the damn door, not even for me.” You nod along, enraptured gaze glued to hers. “You got all that?”
“Yes, ma'am.” At her raised brow, you stammer, “I—uh, sorry, I just… don't know what you want me to call you.”
“… My name.”
“Sevika.” She nods. “Okay. Then, thank you, Sevika. I mean it. You saved my life.”
With a roll of her eyes, she rises to her feet. “Yeah, I'm a real hero.”
“You are, though.”
She doesn't like this. The way you look at her all awestruck and worshipping. Doesn’t deserve it when there are people out there who would treat you much better than her—people who would actually care about you and the kid in the long run. If you're dead-set on keeping it, then it deserves the chance to grow up right. Loved.
Eight hours ago, she strongly considered leaving you in the street, starving and pregnant. So no, she’s not a hero. And she’s fine with that. Her path in life is a different, less savory one.
“There’s money in the kitchen for food,” she says. “Use my bed if you want.”
And then she leaves.
.
.
.
Truth be told, Sevika doesn't expect to see you when she gets home from a week-long binge of violence and booze, bruised all to hell, a headache splitting her skull down the middle. The edges of her temper sanded down to something less volatile.
Once she walked out the front door that morning, she stopped thinking about you. Brushed you off as a fluke, a mistake of lowered inhibitions.
(She thought about you a lot. Wondered if you were staying smart, being careful. If you actually used the money she left behind. If you were even alive. But she would rather die than admit the worry—no, no, Sevika doesn't worry—that fleetingly consumed her.)
You stand in the kitchen, bent over at the waist with an elbow propped on the counter, rubbing circles into your lower back. Bare from the waist down, the hem of your shirt does little to cover the swell of your ass—the little slice of heaven between your thighs, bathed in shadow from the poor lighting in her apartment.
Her fingers itch for a cigarette. She’s finally gone insane.
The room smells like a filling meal, everything left in its original place. Nothing unusual aside from the weight of your presence, and something warm settles in her stomach, heavy as a rock, so unfamiliar it makes her nauseous.
She chooses to ignore it.
“Get into trouble while I was gone?”
You jolt at the sound of her voice, righting yourself with a gasp when you spot her standing at the back of the couch. “Sevika, you're back!” Why do you almost sound relieved? Why do you smile at her? “And no, I…” you nod to the stove where a metal pot sits on the front burner, “I tried to make some soup, but I don't know how good it'll be.”
She walks over to you, boots heavy on the floor, and lifts the lid. Side-steps the wafting steam. “Smells good at least.”
“My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up. It has rice and fish, so it's filling.”
The simple suggestion of a home-cooked meal makes her mouth water, especially made by someone that isn’t her, and she’s eaten much worse in her lifetime. Could never afford to be picky.
Exhaling a long breath, you reach down to once again rub at the small of your back, shifting on your feet. The only sign of discomfort aside from the pinch in your brow.
She huffs, nudging you out of the way. “Sit down. I'll finish up.”
“You don't have to—”
“Kid's giving you trouble. I got it.”
You blink up at her, a relieved smile stretching your mouth, eyes curving into crescents. It's… cute. “Thank you.”
Unfortunately, she soon learns that the soup is more of a porridge, thickened up by the starch in the rice, the fish rubbery from cooking too long.
Well. At least you tried.
She fetches two bowls from the cabinet and notices a stack of dishes that weren’t there when she left. The sink is also empty, as clean as you could manage given all the rust.
Maybe there are some perks to keeping you around.
She calls you over to the kitchen table, and you take the seat across from her with a tired groan. Thank her when she sits a steaming bowl and spoon in front of you.
Sevika always eats alone when she’s home. It’s been that way for as long as she can remember. Rarely ever a choice on her part because she never got the hang of making friends (too unapproachable, people used to say), so your presence is odd, settles wrong inside her gut.
“You’re hurt,” you say around a mouthful of food, and she looks up from her meal to find you squinting at her, head tilted.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
You pout over the metal of your spoon, brows twitching, but say nothing in response.
However, something nags at her.
“So. Do I wanna know why you're not wearing underwear?”
Your mouth flattens into a thin line, embarrassment scrunching up your nose. “Sorry. It just… it's a pregnancy thing, I guess? I get sensitive sometimes. If you know what I mean.”
Her imagination does a good job of filling in the blanks. Thoughts that she never wanted to have about you.
“And that's a bad thing.” More statement than question, her own assumption given your discomfort.
“Good until it turns bad. Really convenient for, uh, certain activities.” You shift your gaze to your bowl of soup, a wide grin rounding out your cheeks.
“Not in my bed, I hope.”
She really, really hopes you didn't fuck yourself in her bed. Doesn't feel like washing the damn sheets.
“I couldn't if I wanted to. Haven't seen my own feet in over a month.” The tone of your voice implies that you do want to, that you've thought about it recently. “No, the uh… the girls at The Rose took me in for a while. One of ‘em was a mom, too, and I guess she felt bad for me. Hormones being a bitch and all.” You shrug, pointedly ignoring her stare. “I prefer women anyway.”
Sevika only briefly considers the revelation in regards to herself, or the fact that you lived in a whorehouse for a brief stint of time, because a more sinister implication rears its ugly head:
You prefer women. You're pregnant by a man with, in your own words, a baby you didn’t ask for.
She already clocked the circumstances the night she found you, but now she knows for sure. And she's furious.
“I'll fucking kill him.” A promise hissed under her breath.
There's no reason for her to get involved, to stick her nose where it doesn't belong, but she can't sit back and do nothing while that bastard walks free.
Your head snaps up, confusion twisting at your brow. Her eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, and whatever you see in her face makes you frown.
Softly, overcome by grief, you say, “He's not your responsibility.”
“This is my city. I don't want a monster like him living in it.”
Your drop your spoon in your bowl with a sharp clatter, turning away from her. “I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said so much.”
Sevika leans forward, elbows folded on the table, half-eaten soup already forgotten. She's lost her appetite anyway.
“So he did hurt you.”
You don't answer for a long while, worrying a hand over the curve of your neck, eyes darting over the pattern of her floor.
Until you nod your head.
She stands up from the table with her bowl then empties its contents into the nearby trashcan. Can't bear the sight of you anymore, sitting so pitifully in her chair, thumb following the curve of your belly.
“I'll take care of it.”
You know by now that there's no point in trying to change her mind.
.
.
.
Her sheets smell like you—the first thing she notices when she finally crawls into bed, shoving her face into the pillow with a frustrated growl. She inhales. Curses herself on the exhale. Inhales again because she's lost her fucking mind.
She ends the dilemma by ripping off her pillowcase and throwing it to a shadowed corner of the room. Still, everything smells like you. Not even in the damn room, and your presence haunts her.
This is getting ridiculous.
Her fingers twitch, craving a cigarette or a blunt or cigar or anything to distract her from the hem of her pants. She won't do that to you—use your smile or your smell or the curve of your ass to get herself off. Not after what she learned just a few hours prior.
But she considers it for longer than she has any right to, and for the first time in forever, guilt curdles sour in her gut.
.
.
.
In order to find out the identity of your rapist (just thinking of the word brings acid to the back of her throat), Sevika comes up with an idea. One of her best.
She plops down on the cushion next to you and takes the book from your hands to get your attention.
You scoff, open your mouth in protest. “What are you—”
“We're going to the Lanes tomorrow.”
At her direct approach, you blink, adjusting the blanket over your lap. “Okay? Why?”
“There's a vendor showcase. I need to buy some things.” A bold-faced lie, and you seem to pick up on it, eyes narrowing in suspicion. She sighs, adds, “I'll buy you something pretty.”
She needs to get you into a crowd because she knows how criminals work. If he sees you, he’ll make himself known one way or another. Wouldn't pass up the opportunity of rubbing what he did in your face.
The hardest part of this little plan will be banking on him actually showing up, but most of the Undercity flocks to the showcase to buy products on discount before the year’s end. The perfect opportunity.
You search her face for… something. An ulterior motive, maybe—one she doesn't have—before sighing. “Okay.”
The next evening, she drags you by the scruff to the bustling hub of the Lanes, streets lined with pop-up markets and food carts, people celebrating and shouting and haggling prices. Your hand remains firm around hers, a neccessity given the thick of the crowd.
Everything is fine at first. She parts the sea of people to allow you through without issue, biting her tongue when you stop at each stall to see what’s on offer. Handmade clothes, street food, jewelry that she only glances at. She forces down her frustration when you take too long sorting through necklaces—if a bit enamored with the way you hold each of them up to your face, thumbing over the chain and the gems and the crystals.
You look up at her with a toothy smile, eyes outshining the fake diamonds in your hand, and her heart stops. Something sickly-sweet weaves through her ribs, squeezes so tight that she almost chokes on it.
Affection.
This isn't good. Her worst fear realized. Every atom in her body screams for her to run far away, to wipe you from her memory, to stay lonely and sad and safe.
Instead, she throws the necklace you chose back into the display and picks up one you looked over previously—the only necklace at the booth with real gems.
“This one is better,” she says, offering it to you for inspection.
“Yeah. This would’ve been my second choice.”
She nods. Pays the vendor despite your very vocal protests then helps you secure the clasp at the nape of your neck. Your skin brushes against her knuckles, soft and warm. A sharp contrast to the callouses that litter her palms and fingers. (And still, you always hold her hand.)
Too intimate. She knows better than this.
Until you spin around and rush her with a tight hug, the swell of your belly pressing against hers, your arms solid around her waist.
She's gonna be sick. Should push you off, lecture you about personal space and boundaries, but she thinks about her mom dying alone on some cold floor in the middle of the night, and she thinks about your smile, and nothing seems to matter much anymore.
She lets you hug her until you're satisfied, and you step away with a quiet, “Thank you, Sevika,” and she almost throws up right there in the street.
And then the night goes to shit.
One moment, you're strolling beside her, babbling about the ingredients of some dish you hate, and the next has you stiffening up, breath heaving in an instant, your fingers winding so tight around her hand that her joints creak.
She looks down at you, finds you wide-eyed, staring at something off in the distance with such abject horror that she puffs up on instinct.
“No no nonono, that's him.” You duck behind her, face fitting between her shoulder blades. “Oh, fuck, we have to go. Please, we gotta go.”
She knows who you're talking about. Who he is. No mistaking your reaction, the way you shake and sob against her back.
A lightning strike of fury consumes her.
“Where?” she hisses, twisting around to look at you. Your mouth opens and closes, fighting to make words, and you duck away from the touch of her hand on your shoulder. “Show me.”
You shake your head so fast your neck threatens to snap, both hands circling tight around her wrist, and you tug at her until you're rocking back on your heels. “Please don't. Please. I just wanna go.”
But fate smiles on her as she looks through the bustling crowd. Only one man acknowledges your existence, tucked behind a food stand on the corner of the street. He thinks he’s subtle about glancing over at you, a predatory glint to his gaze that she wants to gouge out.
As luck would have it, she knows him. Some bottom-of-the-barrel lackey for Smeech that often passes through The Last Drop, so disposable she doesn't even know his name.
Her feet move before she even realizes it, vision tunneling to the pinpoint of his cackling face as he smacks at the man beside him.
“Sevika!”
At the sound of your scream, she stops. Looks over her shoulder to where you search in a panic, shuffling on your feet, the crowd already closing in, jostling you in place.
Fuck. Fuck.
Leaving with you means disobeying the very foundation of who she is, nurtured into a brick wall weapon. She never backs down from a fight, but she can't leave you behind, either. Not like this—inconsolable, barely coherent to the world around you.
She shoves through the throng of people, the scowl on her face swearing murder to anybody who dares to even look at her wrong. She wants blood, wants to cut her teeth on something soft and vital. Craves it so bad that her hands go numb.
Those same hands take you by the arms, ushering you into a nearby alley, away from the chaos of the crowd.
She doesn't comfort people. Has no fucking clue how to calm you down aside from a stilted pat to the back. “Hey. You’re alright.”
You sag against her with a relieved sob, begging her not to leave you again. Begging her to take you home.
Home. Her apartment, rundown and small and shitty, is home to you.
It takes less than a second to make her decision, and she ushers you away from the market.
Fine. The bastard can live another day. She'll ask around the Lanes, catch him by surprise when you're not around to stop her because she knows him, and by the time she's done, there won't even be a body left to burn.
She makes it a promise.