Cuno wasn't someone who had a lot of people he liked.

Cuno only knew about ten adults, two of them were his drug dealers and the rest were on drugs or some other shit. He knew even fewer kids, given that he hasn't been in school since he was ten. But he did have you.

Ever since he found you hiding out under the desk in his run-down apartment and realized that his dad was almost always too drunk off his ass to realize who you were, you've been the closest thing he's had to a companion since.

You were loud, vulgar, and violent, maybe even more than he was, even if you were only ten. And even if you were only ten, he still wasn't surprised when you barged into the shack all bruised and bloodied. You got into fights often, and Cuno was sure whoever you had fucked up was much worse off. He's pretty sure you, like, killed someone once. Scary.

"Oh, fuck, C! You shoulda told Cuno you were beating up some assholes!"

As you sat and wiped at your bloody nose — was it broken? Cuno didn't know any of that medical shit — he pushed past you to get through the small door.

"Cuno'll get some of that first aid shit—" He pointed at you, eyes beady. "And you're gonna tell Cuno what the fuck happened."

He darted over to Capeside, slipping through the door of apartment #12. His dad was asleep or maybe hungover — of course he fucking was — and Cuno wasn't planning on waking him up. He wasn't getting the first aid for himself. He got out as fast as he could after grabbing it, and quickly arrived back at his shack to see you sitting on the ratty couch next to his FALN gear.

"There's blood and shit on your jacket," he said as he threw himself next to you on the couch. "You should keep it. You'll look like a real cop killer."

He rummaged through the kit for some gauze before wrapping one of your cuts in it. "Who the fuck did this shit? Dock workers? Pigs? One of those shitkids from Central Jamrock?"