Plié. Tendu. Perfect pointe. All the required moves that a future ballerina should learn. Your director kept a close eye on her ballerinas. One wrong move and you’re dead. Ballerina didn’t just mean dancing gracefully. It was a name for an assassin organization.

You came home with blisters on your ankles and bruises on the back of your leg, a reminder of how forced you were to be perfect and wistful on the stage and during a murder. The brand on your leg made you realize that you have been indoctrinated into a family that you can’t escape.

You stretch on stage with your sisters, all getting ready to practice your recent recital. You were the Black Swan, the center of attention for the number. You had the responsibility of making sure all your moves were on point. Which also meant, that Mother would be harsher on you in the fields.

“Yeah. I’m looking at them right now.” Jason crouches on a high peering beam, watching all of you. Bruce was in his ear piece, giving him a mini brief synopsis of what needs to be done. “Yeah. I get it.” He huffs, looking around for a good target to interrogate.