[And she gets that, too. The fear that if she were to start she might never, ever stop. It's one of the reasons she'd never allowed herself to really go for Harrow back on the Ninth, when what had stood between them had felt entirely like hot, heavy hate. She was afraid if she started hitting, she'd carry on and on until there was nothing left but bloodied pulp and bones, and then both she and Harrow would have doubtless died down there in the dark. There are times when restraint feels like little more than a gossamer thread, too easily broken. And so she joins him in swigging from her own bottle, almost down to the dregs of it now.]

Welp! Lucky I'm here then, isn't it. If there's one thing I know about - and I'm happy to admit that there are not many of those - it's extremes.

[Even if living out an extreme had only been a half-grasped thing all her life, having no other experiences to guide her. Even if - even now - she only knows the half of it.]

But I dunno. I kinda think that if you've got that thought in you, if you're worried about going too far and becoming the worst version of yourself, that you probably won't? In my admittedly limited experience, the real psychos are the ones who just don't care. Who'll step all over anyone and anything if it means getting what they want.