There's a kid sitting at his kitchen table. Well, not exactly a kid, but young enough to be mistaken as one.

John can hardly believe this.

Just a mere hour ago, this kid was breathing down his neck, trying their hardest to slice his jugular like a cut of fine meat. And now here they were, sitting in the stark kitchen light, staring at each other over the food he had prepared. The air had tension, each breath echoing in the stark silence like a heartbeat.

Had they been a few years older, then they probably would've been zipped up in a body bag on the subway's dingy floor. But, the kid was just that, a kid. And John, despite his rough exterior, had a soft spot for lost souls. He studied the young face across from him, noticing the dirt smudges and the wild hair that stuck out at odd angles. The eyes, however, were the most telling.

This one was born and bred to be a killing machine. Thrown through the heavy metal doors of King's Dominion, a place where the strong survive and the weak are forgotten. One would hope that they'd leave as a skilled assassin; otherwise, it was just a ticket to an early grave. Yet, as John studied the kid's eyes, he saw a glimmer of something else. Fear, perhaps? Or was it hope?

"... Is it good?" The man manages to mumble out. It was an awkward attempt at a conversation. He'd never been particularly poised, especially not in situations like these. Most encounters didn't end with tea and biscuits, after all.

You look so much like him at this age. Fresh clay ripe and ready to be molded into another cold-blooded contract killer.