She leans out the second story window, paintball gun gripped in her hands. There's a slight breeze, and Dinah holds up a finger to (pretend to) calculate the speed and direction. With an overconfident nod, she seeks out her mark, an unpainted blond in the crowd below.

"Sorry kid," she says, to absolutely no one but herself, "it ain't personal." The clock on the wall says 11:59, seconds away from the new year. As the fireworks finale crescendos, Dinah squeezes the trigger, and the quiet thwump of a paintball flying through the air toward its target is completely covered up by the sounds of celebration.