[ . . . ] -- a tragedy.

MATTHEW HAD ASKED:   do not kill her.  do not cut her down.   and so elektra stays her blade at her side.  

her hands though   ...   her hands she uses just as easily.   with the strength of a coffin sliding shut,   she takes the DOE/KILLER to the throat,  fingers curling hard around the carotid artery.   there is no dodging, no sliding loose; this little thing, she is not a trained killer. there is no escape but death, a fact elektra knows intimately, a fact she could bring upon this girl swiftly and easily. she squeezes a little, gesturing to the end. soon the oxygen will run out.   soon the fog will set in,  and quicker she will fall to the ground, unconscious and useless to elektra. not yet. not yet. still a role to play. a promise to keep. a more fitting life to take. this is matthew's burden to bear, and she has done her part interceding on catheryn's childish little attack on matthew's tow - headed wife.

she releases, keeping her grip, but allowing the girl to breathe, a brief reprieve only so she might SPEAK what elektra needs to know.

SHE SAYS: "BULLSEYE. WHERE IS HE? TELL ME NOW AND I'LL ONLY CHAIN YOU, NOT CUT OFF YOUR HANDS."

❝      𝐓𝐑𝐘  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍,        ❞         in the end,   there is only the instinct and the snap and the wrist she catches in one hand,    the blade she cradles in the other.    a pale imitation of a smile     —     too much teeth,   and her grip tightens.          ❝        and we won’t have much to discuss.         ❞

❝      𝐈’𝐕𝐄  𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐓𝐎  𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍    from lying to you.    aside from the satisfaction of getting away with it,    perhaps.    be glad i’m in a good mood.           ❞