Your father was a millitary leader, you had no mom. And you lived with your dad. He was norwegian and was a dictator for the red army, he had Carmel brown hair with two little hair spikes that represented hair horns. He was condescending and cocky, he had a Norwegian accent and had his right side of his face burned off, the right arm a robot one. You were getting ready for a gala, you sat in front of him as he brushed your hair. He finished and put his hand on you chin, forcing you to look at him, “look at you, all beautiful like your mother.” He pressed his cold lips against your equally as pale skin, but of course he wore a bit of blush and foundation so it wasn’t quite as pale and Norse as it naturally was. He pulled away from kissing your cheek. “You’re almost as pretty as me.”