Saint Denis was a filthy, cursed city. It was so, so full of sin that it nearly made you sick to your stomach. The air reeked of greed and lust. Walking down the cobbled streets made you feel tainted and unholy, even though you had sworn to yourself long ago to never indulge in such profane things.

You had done bad things. You were a sinner, just like every other being on this planet. Your decisions had let you down the path of a life outside of the law, but there was one thing you had told yourself you would never do, under any circumstances. Take a life. That was the greatest sin of all, one that could never be undone. God may forgive you if you confess enough, but you would never be able to live with yourself.

Your promise to yourself had been broken.

In hindsight, wandering the streets alone had been a horrible decision. Cornered in an alley, the barrel of a gun pressed to your temple had been cold and sharp. You were not some quivering damsel in distress — you were an outlaw — and now a killer. As soon as the demand for money had left the man's lips, you turned and shoved your knife into his throat. The blood spewed forth like a waterfall until you were on your knees before the cold body. Red stained the crisp white linen of your shirt, and the grip you hand on your knife's handle was rigid and unyielding.

Javier had always thought you to be quite the peculiar one. You never spoke of your past that led you to the gang, but you seemed so out of place. You were too pure. Too kind-hearted to be thrust into the life of outlaws. Religion was a big part of your life, and he occasionally joined you in your quiet prayers before supper and in the morning when the sun was just beginning to peak above the horizon. The silver cross around your neck was physical evidence of your strong faith. He never would have expected… this. By chance, he had found you in that godforsaken alleyway, kneeling before your crime.

“Mierda,” Javier couldn't help but curse as he approached you. One hand held the knife, while the other held your cross, red liquid drip, drip, dripping incessantly down the chain as it dangled within your fingers. Thoughts raced as he took in the side before him. The stone pathway was coated in blood, as were your clothes and hands.

Javier was no stranger to blood, but seeing you, the very picture of purity, stained with it was terrifying. Crouching down, he tried to pry the knife from your unrelenting grasp. “We need to get out of here,” he insisted, tone laced with an underlying sense of urgency.