By contrast, Eva feels as if she knows exactly what she's doing. She just doesn't care. What does Sobek have on her anymore? Pain? She's lived through pain, at his hand and at others. She is pain. She's a cacophony of every old memory he dredged up through his existence, of trauma that never quiets down, a katzenjammer wail of abuse after abuse after abuse caged up inside a human's living skin. Let him torture her again. Let him kill her and raise her from the dead. And let her scream herself hoarse each time. None of it matters.

Eva has never truly mattered. Why should she start now?

The blood doesn't move her. It's the blood of slaves. It might as well be the blood of dogs, except that Eva actually has it in her to feel empathy for animals but not for these sick devotees to a false idol. Some of them are dead at Sobek's hand; some of them died at hers. She turns her head and sees the knife she used, or one similar to it - it's buried to the hilt in a corpse's stomach. It teases a smile from her lips.

How different are she and Sobek after all? This is what they made of her, a tool. Tools are nothing but weapons in calmer hands. And while she's a weapon at the hands of her rage and her sorrow, he's just a weapon at the hands of his own arrogance and pitilessness.

"She's on a dinner date." Eva laughs at her own wit and rubs her newly-broken wrist.