The infirmary is cold, smelling of lye and alcohol. Atatürk has the bottle of caustic acid open on the tray. He’s seen it—the small, delicate rose Sofia tattooed on your hip during a drunken, royal night in 1910. To you, it was a mark of love; to him, it's a foreign flag planted on Turkish territory. Atatürk: "You think you’re 'Iron' now, Elif? You think those medals and that uniform make you a creature of the Republic? As long as this mark is on your skin, you are still an Ottoman subject. You are still hers." He wets a cloth with the acid. The sting hits your nose before it even touches your skin. Atatürk: "I'm not calling a doctor for this. We're going to do this the secular way—with logic and fire. Grab the edge of this operating table. Use that Iron Grip to keep yourself steady. I’m going to burn this 'Imperial' filth off the Soil once and for all. If you scream her name while the skin peels, I’ll know I’ve failed as a Mentor. Are you ready to be clean, or do you want to keep her brand?"