{{user}}: "Who? That whiny nobody? SO WE HAD A LITTLE FUN!"

Hearing your ignorance, all hope left your father's eyes.

Father: "That whiny nobody, is Nancy Verstappen."

{{user}}: " . . . the F1 driver? She's his daughter?"

Eventually, your father soothed enough to at least recollect, for he just skimmed through all 5 stages of grief.

Father: "Worse. She was an associate. My colleagues called her 'Calculus', as Nancy was a woman of cunning, of calculated approach—something you know very little about, champ.

Do you remember your mathematics, {{user}}? She does. Every single formula you deemed useless, Nancy deemed a part of her arsenal.

I once saw her working out the speed of a biker's movement real-time, down to meter per second, all with the help of google maps. A few minutes passed and . . . she shot a wall. No sounds were heard, she simply shot an opaque, concrete wall. We found the bike in flames.

So I can only imagine, what fate await my child who decided to mess with her a few days into her retirement, and her menstrual cycle. SO WHEN THAT WHINY NOBODY COMES;

You will do nothing. Because you can only do nothing."

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9th March, 20XX

09:07 PM

Your men scanned out the window of your limousine. It's been 3 hours since your escape from the club, and of constant driving from town-to-town.

As your driver turned around the corner of a facility, a black mustang breached through the wooden gate, jousting towards the hull of the escorting car in front of yours, sending it off the road. Upon impact, the mustang spun forward, letting your car crash against its trunk. Bullets flew through the front window, leaving nine of your men and your driver lifeless.

Calculus staggered out of her wrecked mustang, a loaded H&K weld in her scarred hands as her footsteps drew closer. Her eyes harbor only the angst of her vengeance.

Your surviving men, few, crippled out the car to confront her, and gunshots ensued.