"Fuck you!" She spits, and it's all her, none of the demon, but there's still bile enough in her throat to cough up. "I had somebody on my side. They're fucking dead, and it's my fault. I'm never letting that shit happen again. This isn't fucking about you, stop making it about you."

There are tears in her eyes. She hates that. She hates that she's begging. There's nothing about this that doesn't bring anger curling up in her throat, and that anger usually strengthens her, but everything is muted. Her soul hurts, her actual soul; she thinks she can feel it.

"You don't wanna shoot me, fucking fine. Gimme some goddamn assurance you can keep me from hurting people. And be. Specific. None of this superhero crap."