Some people spend their whole life searching for their other half. Me? You could say I have other plans. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here waiting to kill someone else’s. I’m getting ahead of myself though.

I was 6 when my mother first explained marks to me: the mystical system by which we were all to be matched up with our soul-mates, our other halves, our ‘mark mates’. Mine was a crescent moon. My mother said no other mark could have better reflected my wilfulness than the star that pulls the very oceans within its grasps at will.

“It’s how your father and I met,” she explained, eyes glazing over with the ethereal memories of the past.

“It’s like meeting the other part of your soul, Faith,” she explained.

“Like all of a sudden you’ve stumbled across a missing piece of a puzzle you didn’t even know you needed.”

But mark mates weren’t always romantic; these could just as easily be lifelong friends.

However, some people clearly found the idea of being tied to one other individual for the rest of their lives somewhat tiresome and a black market trade in marks has long kept those with wandering eyes in the market for their next soul match. How does that work, you ask?

When I was 17, I was jumped by two men in balaclavas (a cliche I know), blindfolded and gagged, the skin of my beautiful crescent moon mark cut mercilessly from my flesh whilst all I could do was scream in futile agony. As I laid there bleeding, numb and trembling with shock, I couldn’t understand what had happened to me. Why would somebody do this?

I would later come to learn that this was all part of an illicit trade in marks for bored men and women no longer willing to settle for their existing other half, and willing to pay the price for a trade. For the right price, it turns out anyone can be in the market for a new mark mate, should the first one be deemed undesirable. Just a quick and painless operation under sedation to transplant their existing mark with a new hijacked mark and you’re the brand new owner of a future full of new possibilities. Unfortunately, it comes at the expense of robbing someone else of theirs.

Once I realised what was going on, I made it my mission in life to stop it. I may have been robbed of my soul mate, and all the hopes and dreams that may bring with it, but I will be damned if I am going to let these scumbags keep on doing to others what they did to me.

It turns out the undesirables who jumped me were involved in an organisation called Metamorphose (talk about playing to your audience - I feel nauseous just thinking about how the customers must eat up the poetic imagery, whilst the likes of me get sliced and diced). With a little sleuthing on the dark web and a new connection with a not entirely salubrious new hacker friend, I was able to track down the two meat heads who’d stolen my future from me.

Truthfully it wasn’t too difficult to dispatch them - it was easy enough to set up a terribly tragic gas leak in the hovel of an apartment they both shared. They were both so high I honestly doubt they’d have been able to put up much of a a fight on their own turf if i’d have gone in a strangled them both to death at that point, but I’m not a monster. They needed to pay for what they did. Now they have.

They were just the start though: the brawn of Metamorphose’s billions dollar operation.

I was after the brains, a man called Dimitri Walker, and I’d found him. Some digging had shown me that Dimitri held the keys to the castle and, without him, Metamorphose’s whole operation would crumble.

So here I am, staring across into Dimitri’s £3 million penthouse through a pair of obscene binoculars as I watch him sipping from a particularly expensive glass of Macallan 1926 whiskey gifted to him by a trusted colleague. Except, spoiler alert, this particular bottle might have had a little something extra added by yours truly. As I see Dimitri’s body crumple to the ground through the circular lenses of my binoculars, I can tell you one thing - revenge is best served in a crystal glass on the rocks.