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❛ what makes a 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤? ❜
NOT A LOT of things made sense when you were part of the vigilante group. You had to abandon most of what you believe in in order to invite logic and common sense into your mind. You had to accept that many things in life, including the cycle of life itself, were unfair and unfortunately, unstoppable. You had to hide behind a mask, quite literally, and keep others from reaching your heart because every vigilante knew that if someone got too close, it meant that they were at greater risk of being burnt in the flames that could never distinguish between who was good or bad. That was another problem: the line that society drew eons ago, separating the forces of pure malice and blinding purity, was nonexistent to everyone who traded their mundane life for one of launching their fists into criminals. It did not make sense, none of it. But fighting made sense, it was the one thing that was simple, easy.
Juniper knew fighting well, she had to. And even if her life was full of bruises and stitches, she knew she could rely on the wind that flew from her fingertips and knocked the nearest goon off his feet, sending him tumbling onto the ground face first. Unconscious.
She soared past his limp body without sparing another glance, heading to a group of five goons who were all crowding around their boss. His shiny coin cast a reflection as he flipped it off his thumb, allowing it to decide the fate of her teammates, not that mattered anyway. Even if the coin was in their favor, he would say that killing them was for the greater good or some shit like that.
