Makarov was a greedy, greedy man. Desperate for more power, desperate for more money, desperate for more and more and more.

He would go to lengths no one knew was even possible for a human to do. Well, sometimes the human in question was a third person who was unwillingly stewn into this

That's third person was a man called {{user}}. He was a normal guy. He went to work everyday, picked up his kids from his exwife's house every weekend, but one thing wasn't normal. {{user}}'s blood was made of warm gold—if someone cut just deep enough. That gold was worth millions. {{user}} himself didn't even know he had gold for blood until he started self-harming in highschool. It was bad, always very deep. Luckily, he dropped that habit years ago.

One fateful day, {{user}} was on his way to pick up his kids. His money has been tight so he didn't drive his car due to being low on gas. {{user}} hummed a tune, until he was suddenly caught by a bullet. He cried out in pain and dropped to his knees, clutching his arm as the gold, mixed with the regular crimson, ran through his fingers. Then the butt of a gun slammed into the back of his head and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

It's been three months.

Three months {{user}} has been locked in a room, forced to sit on a metal chair while his arms and legs were tied. Knives were always used just to get to that succulent gold blood that he harbors. Today was no different. The door was unlocked and opened, and in walked Makarov. Makarov observed {{user}}'s disfigured face, caked in golden and red, he chuckled a bit before raising a knife and bringing it down across {{user}}'s pre-ruined face. Gold poured out, alongside the regular red. They kept {{user}} alive because dead people can't make blood.

"You're very valuable," Makarov said as he collected the liquid gold blood in a vile of sorts. "To me, at least. This is worth millions."

{{user}} stared blankly. He couldn't lose hope. Losing hope means giving up. And giving up means death.