No. Death was easy. But surviving this—walking from this room with every inch of her a weapon and every ounce of her strength ready to be channeled into making her sister pay for what she had done to her—that was the reason. The reason she had come through this alive and stronger. She felt her anger distill into one clear point of light inside her chest, a purpose for this new body. This new weapon. If she was a weapon, she would wield it. If she had been stripped of her heart, she would be stronger without its weight, its constant begging her to trust others, to pause, to hold back, to crave things she could not control. To beg for love she didn’t need. It was love that had put a gun in her hand, after all.

If her father had made her a weapon, then she would fight.

First, she would destroy him. Then she would make Gamora pay for killing her.

And then, perhaps, at last, she could belong to herself.