I can't go back to being Jonah. I'm not him anymore, I'm Max. Daisy's breath (the breath she doesn't really need) catches in her throat, just for a split second. Her gaze falls back to her hands, fingers curling most of the way into a fist, the tips of her claws digging into her skin hard enough to divot but not draw blood. When she shifts in her seat, enough of her upper back and shoulder is on show around her tank top to show the starburst scar tissue. Thick and old.

"Yeah. I hear you. It's... for me, I— I can't ignore the years I spent being the worst kind of person. I can't pretend I didn't enjoy it. Or that I don't miss the way Basira loved me when I was like that. And I'm trying to— figure out what it means to be me, when I don't feel like I've been me most of my life. I don't know what parts of the nearly three decades I spent being that person are salvageable and what was all... the Hunt. I've been Daisy since I was eleven. Alice Tonner as good as died the day I got my scar. And I made sure of that when I was twenty-eight. So I have to be Daisy. I have to make being Daisy— something I can live with."

Instead of something that she wants to kill. Excise completely. Because if she's not Daisy anymore, all she has left are the scant memories of a childhood that led her towards being Daisy in the first place.

It's not the same, exactly, but— she doesn't not get it.